


Refiner's Fire

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Drama, Episode Tag, Episode: s01e22 What Kind of Day Has It Been
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-07-09
Updated: 2000-07-09
Packaged: 2019-05-30 22:12:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 37,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15105890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: A projected conclusion of the shooting in Rosslyn





	1. Refiner's Fire

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**Refiner's Fire**

**by: SheilaVR**

**Category(s):** Post-Ep  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Disclaimer:** This is an original short story spawned by the imagination of SheilaVR, based upon the creation of Aaron Sorkin, with the obligatory nod to Warner Brothers Television and NBC. No copyright infringement is actually intended, but no threat of same will stop me from fantasizing about "The West Wing" anyway...   
**Summary:** A frame-by-frame analysis of the last thirty seconds of the first season finale.  
**Authors Notes:** This plotline has no bearing on Mr. Sorkin's avowed intent to flashback to the Bartlet presidential campaign at the start of the new season.   
**Warning:** I refuse to glorify violence, even in fiction. I will never comprehend how any person could willingly hurt another. However, violence does exist, and by its very nature it is dramatic. What follows is a coolly realistic interpretation of events, based primarily upon a frame-by-frame analysis of the last thirty seconds of the first season finale. 

PUNCTUATION NOTES: 

~ Time Index ~ = header. 

*Emphasis* = bold or italicized text. 

<Idea> = a person's silent thoughts. 

// Caption // = scenes remembered from the finale.

*****

~ TIME INDEX: 00:00:01 ~

Nothing focuses your thoughts like a gunshot - especially when you're in the presence of the President of the United States. What the single shout of warning failed to achieve by sheer lack of volume over the cheering crowds, exploding powder accomplished at once. And in a single heartbeat the entire exterior of the Newseum in Rosslyn, Virginia on this warm summer evening metamorphosed sickeningly from a political pep rally into a civilian war zone.

Your first overpowering instinct is flight: to put as much distance as possible as *fast* as possible between you and the perceived threat, regardless of barriers or people in your way. It may occur to you at some point, though, that movement attracts attention. The next compulsion is to hide, to take cover *anywhere*... if panic doesn't completely blind you to the nearest source of shelter. And then, hopefully, you get hold of your nerves and drop, freeze wherever you are, and pray the shooters miss - knowing all too hideously well that they might *not* miss. That in the very next instant one of those tiny speeding missiles might deliver appalling pain... or brutal death.

And the passage of time takes on a whole new meaning, each moment lasting half an eternity where thoughts race out of control and motion struggles to keep up - without success.

*"WHO'S BEEN HIT?"*

That simple phrase echoed repeatedly through the air, the radio wires and every conscious mind. And while you wait to learn whether you yourself are still among the living, you become excruciatingly conscious of your hammering pulse, the uneven breaths that scald your lungs, and the constant roar of terror both around you and within. When the silence finally registers, it is profound - and vulnerable; and you don't dare do anything to disturb it and set off the violence all over again.

You just hold absolutely still - and wish with all your might that you could rewind the world back to that blissful happiness before your sanity fell apart... or better still, fast-forward to the point where the terror is finally gone and you actually dare to live again.

*****

~ TIME INDEX: 00:00:32 ~

It really was quite astonishing how much action could be compacted into so few ticks of a clock. Bodyguards had to be trained to react instantly, to throw off the surprise and concentrate on their specific tasks, whether it was protecting people or shooting at people. Eventually, though, there came one liquid moment when the smoke cleared, and they could pause and evaluate just how successful they'd been.

The line of public fences, once packed several bodies deep, was all but deserted, most of those spectators still running from the scene. However, enough remained behind, either huddled in moaning stupefaction or sprawled motionless across the hard ground, to perfectly round out this overall battlefield image.

Then, to the exquisite anguish of the privileged few, came the single worst message possible over a Secret Service channel.

*"LAUREATE'S DOWN!"*

Their Nobel Prize-winning Chief Executive had fallen before his assassins.

Gina Toscano almost screamed right then, as her professional training had not permitted throughout the hail of bullets on all sides. She squeezed her eyes shut, clenched her teeth tight, and flattened herself even more over the President's daughter. If only she'd reacted faster, trusted herself more, noticed that unsmiling youth sooner!

// He looked right at her, silent, eyes cold, so out of place among the cheering throngs... and then he looked over her head at someone else... //

That had told her everything, and she'd given the alarm at once - but too late to do one person at ground level any good.

<I failed. Dear God in heaven, I failed them all!>

The frenzy was over, the street eerily still, the sirens just starting to wail. How many seconds had elapsed? How many bullets had been fired? And most important, how many bullets did the killers have left? Their two handguns would hold from eight to fourteen rounds each, depending on the models; any count, however, had been totally obscured by Secret Service agents returning fire from both the street and the rooftops.

Yes, the shooting had finally ceased; it only persisted in her brain. Which meant that the enemy force had been eliminated. They'd been indistinct yet visible in their dimly-lit third-story window, the blooms of flame around their hands horribly self-evident. Whatever aim they had, whether they hit their intended victims or just fired randomly into the sea of business suits below, the SSA would not have halted their own retaliation unless absolutely certain there was no further threat.

Blessedly, the next message that crackled in her ear confirmed this: *"Bird's-eye Four here. Both enemy targets neutralized."* The sniper team perched high across the street had binoculars and an unimpeded view into that upper room.

<BOTH?!>

Gina yanked around. What about the third guy, the punk in the crowd?

Wait - no one else knew about him!

She raised her right hand at once and shouted into the tiny sleeve transmitter, "There's a third one! Ground level!"

<And no one can identify him - except me!>

So Special Agent Gina Toscano made one of those split-instant decisions she'd hoped never to face. It went against SOP, but she had to choose between a bad option and a worse one -

"Zoey, are you all right?"

The youngest daughter of the President twisted to look up at her, eyes staring from the depths of horror.

"My father - "

Gina checked, flashing back to the sick memory of a broadcast that only the Secret Service had heard.

<I can't... > In that endless, soul-rending moment she just could not bring herself to admit the truth, could not tell this nineteen-year-old girl that her father, that the leader of the free world, had been...

At least Zoey herself appeared uninjured - aside from the shock - after being jammed against the limo's tire. No sign of blood or pain. <Looks like I did SOMETHING right... >

Gina gripped her hard by both shoulders, trying to instill some modicum of stability. "Zoey, stay right here and *don't move.* Got it?"

Ashen and shaking, her protectee somehow managed a jerky nod. She was still too stunned to draw any inference from the lack of a direct answer to that all-important question.

"Good. I'll be right back." <If I possibly can... >

Time to really do her job. Gina leaped up, abandoning her shelter and her charge. Stepping into no man's land.

"Someone take Bookbag!" she ordered at large, raising her weapon to the ready. The full-sized automatic pistol looked huge in her petite hand, but a glance would assure any observer that she knew how to handle it.

If it were just a matter of the accomplice getting away, she would have permitted that gladly rather than leave Zoey alone now. But, when balanced against the damage an unknown and dedicated killer-at-large in close proximity could do to all of them -

Gina rushed towards the spot where he had stood just back of the fence; the fence that had since been overturned by the stampeding crowd. Forced herself to ignore the slow reawakening of motion around her, the whimpers of suffering, the bodies littered almost underfoot...

<There - >

He stood some ten yards away, half-hidden by a trash can and a lamp-post. The baseball cap gone, his shaved skull like a bulletin board of affiliation. Watching, as silently and impassively as before. Now holding a pistol of his own.

Waiting to shoot at whoever survived the barrage from above, just when they began to believe themselves safe.

He wasn't merely the assassins' supporter in the crowd; he was their back-up plan.

And he saw her even as she saw him.

Ten yards back, a dark head rose above the limo's hood against all instructions, a frantic face searched the field of slaughter, and a desperate cry pierced the night air:

*"DAD!"*

It could not be anyone else. And it told *everyone* exactly where Zoey Bartlet was.

The hit had failed; the last of the skinhead assault squad prepared to finish it.

And right then Gina *knew*, without one iota of doubt, that she herself was about to die. He would kill her; he was simply too close to miss. And then he'd go on, aiming for his self-appointed enemy and anyone else that happened to get in his way.

But she honestly did not care what happened to her - not so long as she stopped him first. She had to destroy his threat, had to correct the mistake she'd made so many lifetimes ago.

Their respective weapons went off in unison.

*****

~ TIME INDEX: 00:01:16 ~

Zoey almost jumped out of her skin when those two shots, the very last shots of the evening, rang out together. Gasping, she whirled in all directions, oblivious to the fact that this move lifted her into full public view. Conscious only of the frantic trip-hammer inside her chest, as loud as any gunfire... and the numbing terror of being utterly alone.

<Why?>

She never gave a thought to the position her father held: a position that made fame and risk necessary, a position that influenced the entire world. He was one of the two all-important foundations to her existence. And he'd been standing right over there -

That spot was now vacant, save for the stretch of security fencing... and a still form lying like a broken puppet on the ground.

Couldn't be her dad. Her brain registered somehow on the casual attire, so different from what she remembered him last wearing, just in time to head off another scream.

<Why?>

Gina, her constant companion and defender for so long, had suddenly taken off with no explanation at all -

Another human shape lay facedown and motionless on her left, mere feet away. So close.

Couldn't be Gina. This was a man.

<Why why why... >

And Charlie Young, the source of the greatest happiness in her life right now, was no longer beside her -

Suddenly Zoey felt herself solidify. Then, as though manipulated by an exterior force over which she had no control, her head rotated a slow ninety degrees back to port.

<No - >

The sight of an inanimate body where life should be is horrible enough in itself. What made this moment a thousand times worse was the realization - belated - that she had known this particular victim all along.

// He stood frozen, staring straight into the first shots, before Gina knocked him over from behind even as she dragged Zoey down... //

"Charlie... "

She felt someone catch her arm as though to hold her back, but she wrenched wildly out of that grasp and sprang to her boyfriend's side.

*****


	2. Refiner's Fire 2

**Refiner's Fire**

**by: SheilaVR**

**Category(s):** Post-Ep  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Disclaimer:** This is an original short story spawned by the imagination of SheilaVR, based upon the creation of Aaron Sorkin, with the obligatory nod to Warner Brothers Television and NBC. No copyright infringement is actually intended, but no threat of same will stop me from fantasizing about "The West Wing" anyway...   
**Summary:** A frame-by-frame analysis of the last thirty seconds of the first season finale.  
**Authors Notes:** This plotline has no bearing on Mr. Sorkin's avowed intent to flashback to the Bartlet presidential campaign at the start of the new season.   
**Warning:** I refuse to glorify violence, even in fiction. I will never comprehend how any person could willingly hurt another. However, violence does exist, and by its very nature it is dramatic. What follows is a coolly realistic interpretation of events, based primarily upon a frame-by-frame analysis of the last thirty seconds of the first season finale. 

* * *

PART 2

*****

~ TIME INDEX: 00:01:24 ~

A hand lifted shakily, grasped the top rail of a section of steel barricade that was still upright, and hauled. It cost a lot of effort and several painful grunts, but at last Toby Ziegler gained his feet once again.

And just held himself there for several seconds. Head bowed, arms braced. Breathing hard. Blinking at the persistent afterimages before his eyes.

// The stampede swept around him, overwhelmed him, tumbled him across the ground, feet pounding on all sides... //

He ached in every muscle he ever remembered and many others he'd forgotten about. His suit was in greater disarray than the usual Ziegler rumpled image. But, amazingly, everything seemed to work despite the dull pain.

If that rush had not bowled him over, the guns might not have missed. How many people had inadvertently shielded him - and how many had been hit *instead?*

Toby had known his share of military service. The gunshots, the confusion, the acrid smell of powder were all too familiar. But this was not legitimate combat for which one can prepare. This was wholesale destruction aimed at civilians, in violation of every moral code.

In Judaism traditional prayers exist for just about every imaginable occasion. Which one would best apply to a political assassination?

<Perhaps one with a Holocaust theme. The slaughter of the innocents... >

He looked around, seeing the chaos and the bloodshed without really seeing either, trying to marshal coherent thoughts. One concept surfaced chillingly: the President was the most obvious target of such an attack... and Toby, Leo, CJ and Sam had been close behind him as he walked the rope line in those last seconds of peaceful innocence...

"Toby!"

The White House Communications Director turned automatically; one's name possesses an astounding power.

Sam Seaborn gestured briefly to him from the other side of a nearby police cruiser. His tight voice conveyed whatever his strained look did not.

At least *he* was still alive. Which meant that the others just might have survived as well. That slim hope jarred Toby's brain back into gear. Biting back a groan at the concerted objection of wrenched tendons, he headed that way.

Sam had ducked behind the car again by the time Toby arrived. Who cast one glance down and went rigid, all memory of hope crumbling away within him.

CJ Cregg's supine form somehow looked totally *unnatural*. As a rule she positively vibrated with energy, even after a long and hard day at work. This still, silent figure with closed eyes, a dusting of broken glass, and a deceptively-small, deceptively-dark splotch just below her ribs, bore almost no resemblance to the woman that both men knew.

Sam knelt beside her, his own features slack, his head rotating back and forth as though searching for another angle of perspective where this might not look quite so awful. His right arm hung limp, the upper jacket sleeve partially shredded as only glass can do, the earth-brown cloth dyed black. Less severe cuts and their corresponding scarlet ribbons seamed his face; glass fragments twinkled merrily in his disheveled hair.

Toby dismissed Sam's comparatively superficial injuries at once. Even from behind he could tell that Sam was perilously close to a full-scale panic attack, not even aware of his own pain, clearly without the first idea of what he should do next. Toby reached out and grasped his deputy's shoulder.

"Sam." The older man waited until his young colleague looked around. He himself kept his expression carefully expression*less*. "Find the others. And send the very first paramedic you spot back here."

Considering his renown for soft-spoken reserve, Toby could project a powerful aura of command when he really had to. Sam was gripped by that iron resolve, and his anxiety eased a bit at the steadying reassurance of having clear orders to follow. After just a moment he nodded, rose and silently withdrew.

Toby did not watch him go. This was *his* task.

<She cannot die. I will not permit it!>

He pulled out a pocket handkerchief and, disregarding his own aches, knelt in turn beside CJ's frighteningly-still body. The blood continued to ooze around her waist, soaking both blouse and slacks. He applied the wad of cloth against its point of origin, trying to judge how much pressure would do the most good and the least harm.

And, with his free hand, he cradled her head, turning her empty face towards him.

"No - CJ, *don't*... "

*****

~ TIME INDEX: 00:01:28 ~

If Josh Lyman could have found the strength, he would have laughed out loud. The whole scene was too ridiculous: rock-steady white street-lamps and flashing red emergency lights, sleek black limousines and boxy white ambulances, sirens and shouting all combined to completely ruin this once-pristine summer evening of euphoria and triumph. Meanwhile the Secret Service, local police and trauma teams scurried in every direction like so many ants when their orderly routine goes awry.

And to cap it off, he was sitting comfortably back against a fence and watching the whole thing, unnoticed, quite untouched by the tensions and fears so apparent in everyone else. For some unknown reason feeling distinctly tired, yet perfectly at ease.

<Front row seats to the greatest show on earth... come one, come all... >

"Josh?"

His head didn't want to move much, so the Deputy Chief of Staff shifted just his eyes.

And smiled. "Hey, Sam. How's it going?" he asked faintly.

The Deputy Communications Director looked almost as pale as his shirt, contrasting well with his dark suit and darker hair. Strange. And he didn't seem to be enjoying himself at all. <Pal, we've gotta work on your sense of humor... >

Sam crouched down to share the same eye level. "You okay?"

Josh was about to offer an appropriately glib comeback - <Why wouldn't I be?> \- when the distinct tremor in his friend's tone penetrated. This appeared to be important. So he thought about it for an extra moment.

// He stumbled forward, crashed to his knees and gripped the fence railings in both hands, staring blankly through it into a realm of safety where he could not go... //

Right - now he remembered. And there had been something else... a pinprick? Maybe a bee sting instead. Certainly nothing serious, compared to what might have been.

He looked up in mindless calm. "Sam, I have no idea."

For one long second Sam did not react. Then Josh was surprised by the urgency with which his suit jacket was shoved aside.

"God." Sam's diagnosis sounded like a real prayer. "In the back, out the front."

Josh actually snickered. "Really." He understood, in a distant manner, what that must mean, but just could not muster the energy to care. "Doesn't hurt a bit."

"That's *one* small mercy in all of this." Sam was doing something. Taking off his own jacket, in a very awkward fashion. Folding it none too neatly, with only one hand. Stuffing it around his lower back and side, around the entry and exit wounds that simply could not be there, since Josh felt nothing at all.

He vaguely noticed, though, that Sam's appearance seemed oddly *unbalanced* somehow.

Oh, yeah: only one sleeve was white. The other - wasn't...

Josh blinked slowly in wonder. "So... what've *you* been doing?"

"Never mind me. Just hold still."

No problem there; he had no intention of going anywhere. His dreamy smile persisted. This peculiar contentment could go on as long as it pleased. <What a day. What a night... >

"Josh?" Pause. "Josh!"

"Hmm?" He peered dazedly back around. "Whazzat?"

"Keep talking. You have to stay awake; you're in shock. The medics will be here in just a few minutes. Until then, you and I are going to find something to talk about. And I won't let you stop. I'm not going to let you quit on me."

"Yeah... sure... whatever you say, old buddy... "

*****


	3. Refiner's Fire 3

**Refiner's Fire**

**by: SheilaVR**

**Category(s):** Post-Ep  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Disclaimer:** This is an original short story spawned by the imagination of SheilaVR, based upon the creation of Aaron Sorkin, with the obligatory nod to Warner Brothers Television and NBC. No copyright infringement is actually intended, but no threat of same will stop me from fantasizing about "The West Wing" anyway...   
**Summary:** A frame-by-frame analysis of the last thirty seconds of the first season finale.  
**Authors Notes:** This plotline has no bearing on Mr. Sorkin's avowed intent to flashback to the Bartlet presidential campaign at the start of the new season.   
**Warning:** I refuse to glorify violence, even in fiction. I will never comprehend how any person could willingly hurt another. However, violence does exist, and by its very nature it is dramatic. What follows is a coolly realistic interpretation of events, based primarily upon a frame-by-frame analysis of the last thirty seconds of the first season finale. 

* * *

PART 3

*****

~ TIME INDEX: 00:01:37 ~

By the time Leo McGarry was finally allowed to rise, the worst of the crisis had passed. The shooting had ceased. The panic had been reined in. Now all that remained was to clean up the mess, and tally up the cost.

*That's all.* Right, nothing to it.

// Without warning he was forcibly shoved to the ground, and a firm hand planted itself on his back, keeping him low and comparatively safe as death rained down on all sides... //

The White House Chief of Staff accepted an extended hand and struggled upright. The agent assigned to him had done his job right, and probably saved Leo's life to boot - and in the process rendered him utterly unable to help his people, his friends, his President.

Leo was not the type who wanted protection for himself. His every instinct was to protect others.

Past memories, many best forgotten, resurrected themselves and surged forward with a vengeance. The thrill of battle. Valor, loss, outrage. Demanding retaliation.

<This old war-horse isn't out to pasture just yet.>

But his fighting days - at least in the physical sense - had ended long ago. Forcing him to stay back and leave the counterattack to others.

Now that the damage had been done, beyond all mortal power to reverse it, at last he could find answers to the relentless bombardment of questions that assailed him without respite.

Who'd been hurt?

Had anyone been *killed?*

<Jed - >

He shifted his full weight onto his left leg for the first time - and the white-hot teeth that chomped down in protest came as a sharp surprise.

The agent turned back fast as a hiss of pain was wrenched from the man he'd been supposed to defend. "Are you all right, Mr. McGarry?"

<I don't need this. There's too much to be done.>

With a massive effort, Leo clamped a stiff visual mask into place. He could hardly believe that even a hail of bullets had been a sufficient distraction from such fire for so long. But he could tell that it wasn't serious, and no doubt many others right around him required aid far more than he did right now. He rested a steadying hand on the hood of a convenient squad car - one hand only - and silently vowed not to draw medical resources away from the *real* injuries.

Besides, he had responsibilities. Employees to locate. Friends to care for.

"I'm fine. Must've banged something on the way down. You don't know your own strength, Trent."

"You're sure, sir?"

"Yeah." First things first. "The President?"

The agent hesitated... and Leo felt his heart constrict.

"He's being seen to," Trent said with careful restraint.

Leo jerked around - and confirmed his worst fears. Both executive limousines still idled a short distance away.

Regardless of whether he'd actually been injured or not, Jed Bartlet should have been whisked from here without the slightest delay. For him to remain anywhere *near* a veritable combat zone flew straight in the face of every conceivable security regulation.

There were only two possible reasons why at least *one* limo was not currently speeding towards the safety of the White House... or the care of the nearest hospital. Either it physically couldn't - and these luxurious tanks were armored against anything smaller than a bazooka round - or else the President hadn't yet gained its sanctuary.

What news did the Secret Service possess with their covert radio communications that everyone else *didn't?*

"Is he *inside?*" Leo demanded, hearing the strain in those three words.

"Yes, sir; the doors to Mach One are secure."

<Breathe.> At least Bartlet would be safe from *further* danger... but then, any harm already inflicted was not getting the treatment it needed while his transportation sat here.

Leo took a single step forward. Wanting nothing so much as to charge over to the first limo in line, yank its door open, and demand to know his oldest and dearest friend's condition. The fact that the Secret Service would never tolerate such a move did not lessen its compulsion. Trent had to place a discouraging hand on his arm.

Then the reason for that limo's persistent motionlessness snapped into focus: it would have to swing sharply out of its established parade position and pass the other now-unnecessary vehicles in the parked motorcade. And at least two people lay right in its path.

Not even for a critically-injured President could the limo chauffeur be expected to drive right over the bodies of other victims. <And a good thing, too.> Still, their Commander-in-Chief must be evacuated *now.*

Leo forced himself not to look directly at those two casualties. Not yet. His duty to the President *had* to come first. "Get the paramedics over here. Use your own people if you have to, but clear the road! And don't aggravate their injuries!"

"We're already on it, sir."

"And I'm sure they could use some more help. Go!"

Trent frowned; that would hardly agree with his usual instructions. "Sir, I have to get *you* out of here first." The second-highest-ranking individual in the White House was a little too valuable to stick around Armageddon either.

Leo seared him with a furious glare. "*We* have to get the *President* out of here. Now get going!"

Only in extreme circumstances did these agents leave their protectees. Well, few would debate that this event qualified. There was too much to do and too few hands to do it. Attention had to be focused on those people who truly needed it. Besides, the actual danger was obviously past. Trent gave no more objection to his new marching orders.

Deliberately, Leo turned his back on that limo and everything it represented. Striving to put his mental torment for his old friend on hold, at least for now. He had no choice at all but to entrust the President to others' more capable hands. Just like the war.

He looked around, feeling admittedly useless. No one needed him for the clean-up, either; both the Secret Service and the ambulance crews knew their jobs.

Still, the more organized the overall operation, the faster the wounded would be prioritized and treated. In that small way he could contribute. Leo moved among the numerous pockets of activity dotting this surprisingly well-lit area as they concentrated now on first aid rather than defense. He himself wasn't up to physical labor at this time; it took all his self-control not to wince with each halting stride. But he brought an overall perspective and a quiet authority that many found calming and quickly looked to for added direction.

How odd, to be able to provide such comfort when he so deeply lacked it himself...

<Concentrate. Get through it. Do what needs doing.> It was the only way he could preserve any mental equilibrium.

The number of minor injuries was daunting. People had been knocked down, trampled and slammed into various objects in their mad escape. Several had even jumped the barriers to find running room, which disingenuously carried them straight into the line of fire. But, whether due to the poor aim of the assailants, the unreliability of handgun accuracy, or God above, the quantity of bullet wounds were thankfully few. Still, with all those shots popping off at a thick crowd from an elevated vantage point, *someone* had to get hit.

So many lives would never be the same again...

<One thing at a time. Face the present; put off the future.>

Ambulances continued to pour in, no doubt sent from every hospital in the district. Leo pointed two emergency personnel towards still-waiting patients, reinforced police intention to keep the ever-growing gaggle of reporters and photographers well back, rejected a plea for a news statement, spoke to some of the less harried agents for the details behind this disaster and the steps still being taken. Sooner or later, an official release would be required.

And all the while, he tried to find those for whom he was personally responsible. Tortured by visions of what he might find...

The first such person he recognized was not a co-worker and subordinate, but a young girl he had watched grow up - and very possibly the indirect cause of this entire episode. A person whose involvement he had completely forgotten.

"Zoey?"

Hovering as close to Charlie as she could get, Zoey jerked around violently at the sound of her name. Tear-tracks glimmered down her face in the multi-source lighting. Two medics were present, working with careful deliberation on her still-unconscious boyfriend, and she could not possibly help in any concrete manner, yet she held his hand as though both their lives depended upon that physical link. Judging by the black-suited Secret Service agent standing nervously right behind, not even physical force could tear her away.

Perhaps a *very* old and trusted family friend would have more success. The First Daughter should've been extricated from this scene long ago - just like her father.

At the sight of her honorary uncle, Zoey's trembling eased a bit. Then slowly and gently she set down Charlie's limp hand, scrambled up, and went straight into Leo's arms.

Now here was responsibility indeed. <If anything happened to her, Jed and Abbey would never forgive me!>

"Are you okay, honey?"

<And neither would I.>

Zoey blinked at her tears, and somehow found words. "I-I think so. But Charlie - "

Leo looked down at the President's personal aide, laid out face-up on pavement before them all... far too much like a lying-in-state. His eyes had always flashed brilliantly against that mocha skin; when they were closed, his face looked ominously dark. *Lightless.*

However, you don't apply first aid to a corpse. One positive note - of very few all round tonight.

"Easy; they're doing everything that can be done."

"I know," Zoey whimpered, pressing her face against his shoulder. "But they were aiming right at him... and Gina had to leave... "

That simple addendum set off alarm bells, loud and clear. If it were at all humanly possible, Gina would be nowhere else but right here. And if it weren't...

Filled with dread, Leo cast an interrogative eye at the SSA looming protectively nearby.

Who just somberly shook his head. Sending a horrid chill of confirmation down the Chief of Staff's spine. He closed his eyes against the sudden well of grief.

And determinedly, he regulated that grief to the back burner. They'd just have to deal with it later - preferably out of Zoey's earshot. The needs of the living must take precedence.

"Well?" he asked the attendants.

"Bullet grazed his neck," one replied shortly without looking up from her task. "Maybe nicked the spine, maybe not. Can't tell yet."

Leo flinched, and he felt Zoey shudder as well.

Then she raised her head to look him in the eye. "My dad - have you heard -?"

He'd have done almost anything in his power right then to erase that fear completely. This teenage girl was being bombarded mercilessly tonight.

But there are times when it's even more cruel to lie.

"He's in one of the limos." Leo had to pause, wrestling with his own apprehensions. "For the moment... he's safe."

Zoey couldn't help but read into that pause. A sob escaped her.

All at once Leo was hit by a wave of cold anger at the pragmatic regulations - and the violence responsible for those regulations - which prevented this frightened child's father from being present when they so needed each other. What kind of world won't allow its single most powerful citizen to console his own daughter?

Well, then, her father's best friend would do his best to stand in, to hold her close and provide whatever solace could be found in the nightmare her life had become.

*****


	4. Refiner's Fire 4

**Refiner's Fire**

**by: SheilaVR**

**Category(s):** Post-Ep  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Disclaimer:** This is an original short story spawned by the imagination of SheilaVR, based upon the creation of Aaron Sorkin, with the obligatory nod to Warner Brothers Television and NBC. No copyright infringement is actually intended, but no threat of same will stop me from fantasizing about "The West Wing" anyway...   
**Summary:** A frame-by-frame analysis of the last thirty seconds of the first season finale.  
**Authors Notes:** This plotline has no bearing on Mr. Sorkin's avowed intent to flashback to the Bartlet presidential campaign at the start of the new season.   
**Warning:** I refuse to glorify violence, even in fiction. I will never comprehend how any person could willingly hurt another. However, violence does exist, and by its very nature it is dramatic. What follows is a coolly realistic interpretation of events, based primarily upon a frame-by-frame analysis of the last thirty seconds of the first season finale. 

* * *

PART 4

*******

~ TIME INDEX: 00:02:03 ~

The first sensation that registered in the slowly-reviving brain of President Josiah Bartlet was carpet grating against his right cheekbone. Then came the heat - a burning ache that started high on his forehead and stabbed its way backward and down with every beat of his pulse.

His hearing kicked in next, just as a voice spoke nearby, masculine and urgent. "For God's sake, is he alive?"

<Gee, I hope so... Who do you mean, anyway...?>

A warm touch probed the side of his neck, pressing down, searching for something. Another voice said, with vivid relief, "Pulse seems erratic, but it's fairly strong."

The dead-weight that had to be his body shifted a bit, but not under his own volition or effort, and other hands ran over arms and legs that still didn't quite feel as though they belonged to him. Almost like a police pat-down... or a mugging, even?

<Want my wallet?... Don't carry one anymore... >

Those disembodied hands loosened his collar. Moved down along his rib cage -

<Hey, careful... I'm ticklish... usually... >

\- And one of those voices swore. "We've got blood here!"

That critical word penetrated and took on meaning. <Okay, what've I done to myself this time?>

Someone else cursed too. "Where?"

"Left of center. Good-sized stain, too... but wait, I can't find a wound anyplace - "

"Then maybe it's mine," a third voice suggested more quietly.

Fragments of memory began to settle into their proper place. Something about handshakes and... firecrackers?

"Aw, hell -! Look, just sit back and pressurize. *We'll* handle this."

No, not fireworks. Gunshots -

// At the very first blast he was seized by both arms and dragged back from the crowds, almost lifted right off his feet, before he could even look to see what was going on... //

"Why are we still sitting here? Get this parade float moving!"

"We can't just drive over bodies in our way!"

// Strong arms around his waist bodily launching him headfirst into the limo... //

"Mr. President? Sir, can you hear me?"

"He's still out like a light!"

"Just pray that's *all* he is... "

"Damn! Head wound - "

Something touched his battered cranium, and he jerked away with a sharp grunt of anguish. Now there were fireworks, assaulting his closed eyes from behind. Red, white and blue: how patriotic.

However, the flare of pain did burn off the fog hovering over his mind - fast. Physical messages began to come in from all fronts. He lay in a heap on his right side, limbs cramped, face pressed into the floor of what had to be the presidential limousine.

And he remembered. Everything.

Recollection brought a surge of pure undiluted adrenaline. But weakness came next, sweeping over him like a tidal wave: a hideously familiar sensation.

<No. Not that. Not here. Not now!>

"Sir! Thank God! Sir, are you - "

Jed Bartlet pushed himself up on both forearms, ignoring the harsh drumbeat in his skull, the dizziness that indicated something far worse, and the query. Deaf to all save his consuming fear for everyone else. "The others?" His tone was weak and ragged, but raw emotion helped give it strength. *"My daughter?"*

"Sir, are you all right?" the nearest voice persisted frantically.

Anything to stop their questions so that he could get some answers. "Hell, no. I'm heartsick and furious. *Where's Zoey?*"

"Details are coming in, sir. Careful; don't move too fast." Hands closed upon him again: this time offering assistance, easing him slowly into a seated position against the limo's interior wall. He just had to lean his throbbing head back and concentrate on breathing for a few seconds. Three other men shared these close quarters with him - Secret Service, of course - but between the dim cabin lighting and the mental thunder he couldn't focus on faces yet.

He didn't need clear vision to issue clear orders. "Well, *get* me those details. That's what your radios are for!"

"We're trying to, sir. Now let me look at that gash." The closest agent held a handkerchief to that radiating sore spot, stanching the trickle of blood that seeped through the President's hair and ran down his temple.

He scowled and impatiently knocked the hand aside. "Forget it. What about my daughter? And my staff? Have any of them been hurt?"

This time it was the agent who ignored a direct question. "It's not a bullet-wound. You must've just cracked it somehow."

"Yeah - when you guys pitched me in here. There's a dent in the metal. *Tell* me about the people still out there!" Jed demanded, struggling to sit up straighter.

"Please keep still, sir, until we're sure you're okay. Do you hurt anywhere else? There don't appear to be any other wounds, but that stain looks critical - "

It sure did, covering much of his left side, soaked through both white shirt and navy blazer. But their protectee paid it no mind at all. He'd had all he could stand of this unwanted attention. "I'm *fine*. And I want a straight answer *now*."

The second agent sighed, finally realizing that there was no way to put this off any longer, and transmitted out. "Who's with Bookbag?"

That simple request froze the President where he sat, his face draining of what little color the head blow had left. *That* was the reason they'd delayed in telling him...

"Wait a min - Gina's not with her? Where is she? *What happened?*"

Without awaiting a reply he pushed away from the wall, fuelled by the iron resolution to exit and find out for himself.

"Sir, you've got to stay down," the first agent insisted at once, barring his way with a firm hand.

"Hell with *that*." Jed suddenly lunged sideways, body-checking the guy and knocking him off-balance, then made a grab for the door handle. Nothing was going to come between him and his little girl when she was in danger -

Nothing, that is, except the United States Secret Service. The second agent shook off his surprise at being under attack by his own Commander-in-Chief and sprang to intercept. It *was* rather comic - three grown men scrambling around on their knees in such a confined space, one desperate to leave and the others determined to prevent that very thing - without hurting him further - but it was also decidedly one-sided. Outnumbered and handicapped by pain and illness-induced exhaustion, the President quickly found himself once again hauled backwards from either side, plunked into his seat and pinned there, both arms locked in the unyielding grip of his own bodyguards.

"Dammit, let *go* of me!"

"Mr. President." The third agent, sitting quietly on the floor towards the front of the passenger area, addressed him for the first time, and something in his quiet tone captured Bartlet's attention. He blinked at the perspiration and blood that stung his eyes. It was Ron Butterfield.

"We're not opening that door again here, sir. It's the only certain protection you have left."

Breathing heavily, his boss glared back. "Ask me if I care right now - "

"Well, sir, *we* do; and the majority rules. You can veto us later if you like."

It had to be an extraordinary occasion indeed when the ranking SSA made a joke. To the Chief Executive, no less.

Jed was just about to let loose a scathing retort when the vehicle around them vibrated noticeably. Four heads turned to the windows.

"Road's clear," one agent confirmed, even as the scenery began to slide past.

"I'm not leaving them behind!" the President bellowed, flinging himself against his living bonds. To no avail, except that it made his abused head pound all the more.

"Sir, there's no way you can help," Ron pointed out, his voice soft yet uncompromising. "And lots of ways you can hinder. *We have to go.*"

Left with no choice in the matter at all, Jed felt some of the tension leave him. Helplessly, he twisted around for just one glimpse of the scene retreating behind them. But between the movement, the night and the heavily-tinted windows, he could see nothing.

"Zoey... "

His companions did not offer any hollow encouragement; at least they could grant him that courtesy. The two unnamed agents felt his resistance die, and gradually released their hold. He stayed slumped in place, expression blank, the fight gone out of him.

All three turned away, trying to provide a little distance and at least the illusion of privacy, not wanting to gaze upon their leader in defeat.

"Where to, sir?" one of the pair finally asked, looking across at Ron.

The President answered first. In a tone as weary as the ages. "Home."

Ron didn't like that. "Sir, you need to see a doctor - "

Something sparked anew in Bartlet's bleary vision. "In case you've forgotten, my wife *is* a doctor... and I'm sure she'll be there by the time we arrive. She's certainly qualified to treat a headache. And assuming Zoey's okay - " he had to pause for a steadying breath " - that's where she'll be taken, too."

Ron waited one calculating heartbeat before he nodded. "Yes, sir."

"And if she's *not* okay... " Jed went on quietly, bitterly "... I know you won't let me go to her anyway."

No one answered him. They all knew how true that was.

<She will be all right. I have to believe that - because I'll go mad if I don't!>

Ron nodded silently to one of his subordinates, who radioed out at once: "Laureate's en route to Crown."

Which would reassure everyone with access to that particular frequency that their President couldn't be *too* badly injured, since he was bound for the White House rather than the nearest medical center.

Just imagine the number of relieved sighs heaved at *this* bulletin... especially after the *last* one.

Edging cautiously closer, respectful yet still concerned, one of the agents again applied a cloth to that executive head wound. His "patient" paid him no attention at all, now totally disinterested in everything save his own emotional purgatory.

The other reached for Ron, but he shook his head in silent refusal.

And then, a moment later, all three bodyguards suddenly glanced between themselves and cracked genuine grins at the secret information they now shared.

Bartlet hadn't noticed, staring bleakly out of the limo as each revolution of its powerful engine carried him further from where he most wanted to be.

<Lord, if You're willing to grant me just one prayer in my life... >

"Mr. President?"

Bracing for bad news - or *worse* news - he somehow compelled himself to turn that way.

Ron attempted to maintain a businesslike air. And failed. "Your daughter is safe."

Jed's countenance began to shift from anxiety to wonder.

"She hasn't been hurt at all, and she's heading for Crown right now."

The President hadn't been prepared for the *best* news. When it sank in fully his head fell back against the padded rest with an enormous sigh, and his eyes drifted shut.

"*Thank* you. And while I'm at it, thank *God*."

Who *says* prayers aren't answered?

Then the delight faded as other thoughts resurfaced, and he looked around again. "What about the others? Leo? Charlie - "

"The reports are still coming in, sir. Several people have already been evacuated to hospital; it'll be awhile yet before we know everyone's condition."

Jed leaned forward, eyes narrowed like laser beams; his sense of duty had been re-established in full force. "I want the names of every single one. Every staffer, every agent, every bystander, and I want to know how bad. And I want to know *exactly* what happened to the assailants," he added, his tone turning to granite.

"You'll have that information, sir, just as soon as we can get it."

"Good."

Now that his paternal instincts no longer overrode every other thought, the President decided it was high time he started acting presidential again - for the sake of everyone *else* affected by this senseless assault. He waved off the persevering agent with the now-stained handkerchief, and gave him a grateful nod for his ministrations. Straightened his shirt, jacket and tie as best he could. Applied his own (unstained) hanky to his blood-and-sweat-streaked forehead. And savagely wrestled the demon of real illness back into its cage, by force of will refusing to let it get the better of him. He'd worry about the repercussions of *that* later.

<Leo will stay there and take control. He'll see to all of the others... as long as he himself can stand... >

The other SSA fidgeted, looked at his supervisor - who frowned back in clear warning - and decided to speak up anyway. "Mr. President, if you want, you can begin right here."

Jed did a sharp double take. "What?"

Ron exhaled and rolled his eyes.

That got the point across, in spades. The President stared hard at both of them... and his features sagged in the unsettling discovery that he'd managed to totally miss the obvious all this while...

Ron Butterfield had, in essence, not moved from his spot on the carpet in that forward corner since his boss's revival. The poor interior lighting could be blamed somewhat, and the black suit swallowed any sign of dampness, but he held his right arm crooked in a stiff and unnatural position that could mean only one thing.

"Ron - " Jed left his seat and crossed the steadily-rocking limo's floor, fresh perturbation written in bold on his face. "Why didn't you *tell* me?"

Ron clung to his professional detachment. "It's just a flesh wound, sir. Our primary concern was you."

"Oh, give it a rest and let me see." His arm's rigid posture made getting a good look difficult, and moving it would increase his discomfort. But the President gently persisted until he saw enough to judge the general extent of the damage. The blood that had stained *his* clothes also covered his chief bodyguard's entire shoulder.

"That is *not* a flesh wound, mister, and it takes precedence over a goose egg. Thanks for letting me know," he said to the informing agent. "Now change course. We're going to the hospital after all."

"Sir, don't worry about it - " Ron persisted.

"You've ordered me around enough for one evening, my friend. It's *my* turn. This is no time for that famous Service dedication. We're going to drop you off first, before you leave any more of your precious fluids in my car." Bartlet jerked his head imperiously at the other two agents. "Turn this thing around. And tell them *why*, before anyone panics."

"Yes, *sir*," one of them replied with a thankful smile. The Service might normally be advised against burdening their principle security risk with their own welfare, for obvious reasons, but the members themselves looked after each other.

The President tuned out the resulting one-sided radio conversation. He was gazing down at the crimson splash across his own shirt in guilty disbelief.

<Well, if it wasn't mine, whose COULD it be? Jed, my man, you are way overdue pulling yourself together. Snap to it!>

"And to think I never paused to wonder before just how I got this. Pretty thoughtless of me. Ron, I'm *sorry*."

"Not a problem, sir. You had other priorities."

"Damned poor excuse to ignore the pain right in front of me." Jed retrieved his own handkerchief again. "Here, you can use mine." And he himself packed it carefully around the shoulder joint. "You know, not many people can boast of receiving first aid personally from their Commander-in-Chief."

Ron managed a grin, trying not to wince. "I'm honored, sir."

The limo swayed as it took the next left corner at high speed. All four men braced themselves until the keel evened out again.

"And I'm grateful." The President held the improvised bandage in place, steadying his injured employee with the other hand. And just looked at him, abandoning any further attempt at humor. "I don't have to guess when this happened - or *why*."

There was no sense denying it. "No, sir."

"From the looks of it, you got me out of the way barely in time."

Ron paused, held in the grip of those steel-blue eyes. He'd done precisely what his job required; modesty had no place here. "Yes, sir."

"Too bad you didn't get *yourself* out of the way, too," his boss observed sympathetically. "That must've hurt."

He shrugged - with the left shoulder only. "Truth be known, sir, I didn't even feel it at the time."

Jed's gaze never wavered. "Well, if not for your quick response, I have no doubt that *I* would've felt it." His supporting hand squeezed a bit tighter, and his serious tone softened even more. "I owe you one, man."

That made Ron chuckle despite the pain. "No, sir, of *course* you don't - "

"You tell me it's all in the line of duty and I'll fire you right here, Ron. If I say I owe you, then I *do*." And for the first time in what felt like eons to all of them, the President smiled. "And there's just nothing you can do about it."

*****


	5. Refiner's Fire 5

**Refiner's Fire**

**by: SheilaVR**

**Category(s):** Post-Ep  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Disclaimer:** This is an original short story spawned by the imagination of SheilaVR, based upon the creation of Aaron Sorkin, with the obligatory nod to Warner Brothers Television and NBC. No copyright infringement is actually intended, but no threat of same will stop me from fantasizing about "The West Wing" anyway...   
**Summary:** A frame-by-frame analysis of the last thirty seconds of the first season finale.  
**Authors Notes:** This plotline has no bearing on Mr. Sorkin's avowed intent to flashback to the Bartlet presidential campaign at the start of the new season.   
**Warning:** I refuse to glorify violence, even in fiction. I will never comprehend how any person could willingly hurt another. However, violence does exist, and by its very nature it is dramatic. What follows is a coolly realistic interpretation of events, based primarily upon a frame-by-frame analysis of the last thirty seconds of the first season finale. 

* * *

PART 5

*******

~ TIME INDEX: 00:02:45 ~

Throughout the rest of his days, Danny Concannon would never be able to decide whether he was furious at CJ for giving him the worst scare he'd ever known... or grateful to her for very possibly saving his life.

If she hadn't offered him that head start on the space shuttle *Columbia*, he would have been out there in the open with everyone else - and just as vulnerable. But then again, he also would have known what happened to whom (assuming nothing happened to himself) - and been spared several agonizing hours of supreme uncertainty.

He was still on the phone to his editor, throwing glances at his watch and hoping the motorcade wouldn't pull away before he got out there (in which case he wouldn't get to see CJ until much later, after the wrap-up briefing back at the White House), when an unexpected, out-of-place sound drew his attention.

Running footsteps. *Racing* footsteps. Not leaving to watch the excitement outside as one would expect... Instead they grew louder every instant, echoing in these halls that had just begun to calm down after the President's visit.

Before Danny could even wonder, a young woman in T-shirt, jeans, sneakers and shoulder bag - a student from the audience, his journalistic mind concluded instinctively - ripped around a corner not twenty feet away as though pursued by the devil himself.

The sight of Danny's total obliviousness seemed to trigger the scream hitherto choked off by her perfect terror.

*"They're DYING out there!"*

Danny was out of his chair without having made any conscious decision to stand. His right arm lowered, the phone call instantly forgotten. He watched the girl charge on past, saw her shocked eyes, heard her sobbing breaths... and knew that it was true.

And he dropped the receiver and ran. As desperately as that teenager had fled the awful sight, Danny Concannon just as desperately sprinted towards it.

<This can't be happening... >

The distance from his assigned desk to the outside door could not have been much more than two hundred yards. Professional sprinters can cover that ground in less than half a minute. By such a standard Danny would have qualified for the Olympics tonight... but from his own perspective, he was running for hours without end.

<This is supposed to be impossible - >

Danny had been a reporter almost all his adult life. He'd covered the White House for the last eight years. He'd worked his way up to Senior White House Correspondent. And he'd personally known the current President ever since Governor Josiah Bartlet commenced his run for the Oval Office more than two years ago. But in all honesty, that wasn't uppermost in Danny's churning thoughts during his marathon of horror. Because, as long as he'd known and liked the President, he'd known and loved the President's Press Secretary.

His thoughts had no time for the spectacular nature of a prime story erupting directly in front of him, the guaranteed repercussions to the entire nation, or the potential death of a man he truly respected. All he could see was an extraordinary woman no sane person could hate getting caught in the mayhem. With hideous results.

He exploded into the night air - and slammed squarely into a police officer, almost knocking him over. The cop rallied, though, doubtless a bundle of nerves himself by now, and seized Danny's arm, yanking him to an abrupt halt.

"*Hold it!* The whole area's restricted!"

At first Danny didn't even hear him. His senses were filled with the flashing emergency lights, the shrilling sirens, the shouting officials, the pitiful cries, the scuttling Secret Service agents on all sides *with their guns out* - and the bodies on the asphalt.

Whatever had actually transpired, which from even one glance could not have been less than a massacre... by the time that hysterical student picked herself off the ground and ran indoors and Danny got the news and ran out, it was over.

*Over.* Such a final word.

His entire being cried out a single name: <*CJ?*>

A sharp jerk on his arm brought him back to himself, briefly. He stared at the uniform that opposed him, and tried to think of what would change this guy's mind.

"My friends are out there!"

The officer looked suspicious. "And who might *you* be?"

"Uh - " That question took another priceless heartbeat to register and make sense. He groped for the answer. "White House Press Corps - "

The cop's look of scepticism twisted into blatant disgust, as though being a newsman was tantamount to a criminal. "*No* reporters. Get back with the rest of them. Your headlines can damned well wait."

Danny couldn't believe his ears. How could anyone not understand how critical this was to him? "No, I've got to find out if they're okay - "

"*No way*, pal. Not unless you want me to arrest you right here." The officer put a hand to his holstered revolver in unmistakable warning.

The threat penetrated somehow, before Danny completely lost control. At last he realized the futility of arguing any longer. Never had he felt more like hauling off and clouting someone - however, he saw the stupidity to that idea just in time. It felt like a vice crushing his heart, but he obeyed. Unable to do otherwise. Unable to do anything at all.

As long as he went no closer - and that cop watched him like a hawk - he was permitted to stand and look. Which he did, staring across an endless vista of destruction, peering at the casualties laid out and the survivors milling around them, praying that he'd spot a familiar face or silhouette. One with high heels and auburn hair.

A part of his brain that still functioned with some semblance of normalcy noticed that one of the long black executive limos was gone. The other remained. Which meant that at least one of the Bartlets had been removed from the danger zone - and the odds were at least even that one of them *hadn't*, since in a crisis they were supposed to be protected separately. And the Secret Service only knew which had left. So what about the one remaining behind?

Some of the fallen human shapes he could make out must have been innocent spectators, but at least two wore business suits such as spectators never would. Perhaps a White House staff member, someone Danny knew well? And he still couldn't identify a tall redhead...

<CJ, where ARE you?>

She might be on the ground bleeding ten feet away, and he couldn't go to her -!

It seemed that there were ambulances everywhere. Danny struggled to convince himself that, if by any appalling chance she *had* been hurt, the attendants would give her better help than he ever could.

No use: that image only made him more frantic to find her. But a cop with an attitude and a loaded gun still barred his way.

He tried to reason things out. Where would the victims be taken? Bethesda was usually the first hospital to come to mind whenever one thought about the President, just for its prestige - but rather distant to be feasible tonight. Walter Reed could provide the proper security needed, yet it too was unrealistically far away. Georgetown University might be nearest in terms of mileage, although the narrow streets around that neighborhood would give a speeding ambulance pause, to say nothing of a stretch-limousine. George Washington University seemed like the best bet, especially since it was almost on a direct line to the White House from here.

Which meant that by now a hoard of reporters would already be there, drawn just like sharks to blood scent.

Danny knew well the pull that a story could have. He himself had recently caused the Bartlet administration a great deal of embarrassment by publishing a document he'd uncovered, a veritable guidebook on its weaknesses. His defense had been that it was valid news. CJ held him personally responsible for weeks; only this evening had she shown any definite signs of thawing. That tip on the shuttle had been her olive branch of truce - offered mere minutes before she walked outside with the President and straight into assassin gunsights...

He could not have felt less of a desire to report on *this* story. He didn't care if he failed to write a single word about it, or what anyone would have to say about his reporting skills and senior correspondent status afterwards. Later he might calm down enough to look at things more objectively - but right this moment none of it mattered anywhere near as much as the one vital piece of news he wanted most, and could not learn.

He'd have no problem forgiving CJ for denying him a front-row seat to the biggest incident of his career - just as long as he'd be able to forgive her in *person*.

An object to one side caught his eye... something with which he was naturally familiar. A full-sized TV videocamera, lying flat on the pavement where no cameraman would ever place such a delicate and expensive piece of equipment, much less leave it unattended.

And then he realized that it must have been dropped: the stardust twinkling around it could only be broken glass.

Which meant that its wielder must have gone down as well.

Reporters as a breed disregarded their own welfare, pursuing the story at all costs, carrying cameras into the front lines of wars and disasters alike, maintaining through their lenses and microphones an almost callous detachment from the actual impact on people's lives - and seemingly convinced that the public service they provided would grant them virtual invulnerability. Sometimes it actually seemed to. And sometimes...

Just how dearly had that coverage been bought tonight? Was someone else Danny knew fighting for his or her life this minute - and *losing?*

How ironic, that the story of the year should break on the very doorstep of a museum devoted to news, as if someone had planned it that way all along. Nice touch.

The *Columbia* had been trapped in orbit, at the risk of its entire crew, until a desperate repair job finally made its safe return to earth possible. Captain Hotchkiss, his Stealth fighter shot down over Iraq, had been plucked from certain torture by a daring covert rescue operation in defiance of all diplomatic protocol. And there were a lot of other stories out there in the night, many of them important and all of them worth telling... now all destined to obscurity, overwhelmed by the simple squeeze of a human finger.

Danny sighed and pulled out his cellular phone, bracing himself to place one obligatory call.

"Sir - me again."

His editor's voice crackled along the channel, rising above both shouts and sirens.

"Yes, I can confirm that shots were fired and that people have been hit... "

He shook his head automatically at the next question, even though his boss couldn't see. "No, I don't have it; by the time I got out here it was all over."

Then his eyes widened in disbelief.

"*Where?* On the phone to you, sir! Giving you that tip on the shuttle, remember? How was I to expect that anything like *this* would happen?"

His editor wasn't impressed, and proved it.

"You wouldn't ask that if you were here. Bodies are still lying all over the place. I haven't even been able to find out if the President is okay - or anyone else, for that matter."

The inference drawn by *that* comment really made Danny see red.

"Oh, really? Fine! The next time Bartlet arranges his own assassination attempt, I'll make sure he waits until I'm right there to watch him fall!" And he broke the connection with more force than the phone was really designed to handle.

<The single-mindedness of the guy... > Danny didn't appreciate that self-centered attitude from anyone on a *good* day. Besides, every paper in town would have the whole story printed, or at least as much of it as was yet known, before another hour went by, and it'd be flashed around the globe long before that. People in every nation would tune in to hear all the gory details, getting a sterilized perspective, forgetting that behind this exciting drama was real human suffering. What conceivable difference could one more reporter make?

The rush caused by that little chat wore off fast, leaving him empty and listless. <NOW what do I do?>

He really didn't want to stay, gazing upon the graphic results of unmitigated violence, but he hated to leave without knowing for sure that CJ wasn't still here. And he had absolutely no idea as to her current location... or *condition*...

And yet, if he remained at this distance, he wouldn't learn either.

Across the field of combat, Danny could see a line of police holding back countless other reporters, both White House affiliates and free-lancers. The cops were obviously trying to shepherd them away from the scene and onto the buses that had transported most of them here earlier this evening. With predictably poor success: either the newsmen refused to leave, filming every possible angle of this calamity, or else they chose to obtain their own transportation. Heading for the hospitals, no doubt.

And beyond them, the lights of Rosslyn shone as bright and steady as ever, as though nothing unusual had happened at all...

At last Danny told himself that, logically, he should go to the White House and try to make some coherent sense of all this. He held the senior position; it was expected. Besides, the hospitals wouldn't let him in there any more than the police had here. And the bus would transport him as fast as any other public service.

However, right now he couldn't stand being around another witness to the past half-hour - especially another journalist, who'd want to talk about nothing else. He desperately needed privacy, to confront his fears and his hopes uninterrupted, in silence. He'd find a cab.

One thing, and one thing only, made this decision possible for him. CJ would be there in the Press Room, to brief the world on what exactly had occurred, if she was in fact all right.

And someone else would be able to tell him the truth, if she *wasn't*.

*****


	6. Refiner's Fire 6

**Refiner's Fire**

**by: SheilaVR**

**Category(s):** Post-Ep  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Disclaimer:** This is an original short story spawned by the imagination of SheilaVR, based upon the creation of Aaron Sorkin, with the obligatory nod to Warner Brothers Television and NBC. No copyright infringement is actually intended, but no threat of same will stop me from fantasizing about "The West Wing" anyway...   
**Summary:** A frame-by-frame analysis of the last thirty seconds of the first season finale.  
**Authors Notes:** This plotline has no bearing on Mr. Sorkin's avowed intent to flashback to the Bartlet presidential campaign at the start of the new season.   
**Warning:** I refuse to glorify violence, even in fiction. I will never comprehend how any person could willingly hurt another. However, violence does exist, and by its very nature it is dramatic. What follows is a coolly realistic interpretation of events, based primarily upon a frame-by-frame analysis of the last thirty seconds of the first season finale. 

* * *

PART 6

*******

~ TIME INDEX: 00:03:11 ~

Like most Vice-Presidents, John Hoynes dreamed of the day when he would be President himself. What young and ambitious American politician wouldn't - especially after living in the shadow of that ultimate goal, rarely noticed and even less appreciated?

Still, there was one aspect to working in the White House that did not appeal to him at all, and that was *living* in the White House. Of course, in an emergency the Chief Executive could respond at once, since he slept right upstairs. Yet in the same fashion he could never truly escape the demands of his job, and found it almost impossible to separate work from relaxation, public life from private life. No wonder Jed Bartlet mentioned restless nights.

No, far better to enjoy the relative seclusion of the Vice-Presidential Mansion, halfway across DC on the spacious grounds of the US Naval Observatory. It had to be really urgent before any work followed its prime resident there.

On this particular evening Hoynes had put his feet up with a good book and the TV off. And concentrated on forgetting that, just across the Potomac, the only man in the country who outranked him was chatting it up with a mob of college students, and almost certainly garnering laurel wreaths in the process. The Vice-President dearly wanted to make his own run for the Oval Office, and he didn't want to wait out a second four-year term. But at the rate the polls were climbing recently, Bartlet would be a shoo-in for re-election against anyone masochistic enough to oppose him.

He was immersed in his novel, to the deliberate exclusion of all else, when a firm tap on the left-hand door brought him abruptly back to this world. Heaving a sigh, he lowered the paperback. <Figures. Just when I get to a suspenseful part.>

The *real* suspense was yet to come.

"Yes?"

The ranking officer of his Secret Service detail strode into the den. Hoynes took one look at that scowl and his annoyance dissipated. Something was wrong.

"Sir, I think you should watch the current newscast."

Hoynes hesitated for one heartbeat. Something was *very* wrong. Still, if the media had the details and the SSA didn't, then it most likely didn't involve the personal safety of -

He had straightened his recliner and picked up the TV remote when the den's right-hand door blew open, without even the courtesy of a knock. Both men jerked that way as the Vice-President's home secretary burst in, eyes huge.

*"THE PRESIDENT'S BEEN SHOT!"*

Silence, thundering. Not even thought would come.

With difficulty, Hoynes shook off the spell and threw a stark glance at the stiff-standing agent on his left, who made no move to deny that horrific statement. Then, in slow motion, he aimed the remote and brought his TV to life.

He didn't even check which station came up; as usual in cases of serious groundbreaking news, every channel suspended everything else. The first sight that appeared was unmistakably the presidential motorcade parked outside the Newseum, just a couple of miles away from where he sat. And that same sight at once erased any hint of order and routine: ambulances were everywhere, several people hurried about with clear urgency, and several others lay prone across the ground.

There could be no other possible conclusion.

"... those just joining us, shots were fired at the President as he stepped outside the Newseum in Arlington no more than five minutes ago... "

For an immeasurable period the three men watched the coverage together. Evidently photos and video clips were being compiled and broadcast on a minute-by-minute basis, as fast as they could be transmitted. There were snippets of the presidential party stepping outside, Bartlet meeting the people with his security and staff close by - then sharp, brutal reports that started everyone running in undeniable panic. Shouts, screams, disjointed movement, explosions of light as bullets struck metal objects from above and gunfire was returned from below. A few slightly-blurred frames caught the President up close as he was seized by his agents and hauled towards safety; others focused on the stampeding crowd and the rapid increase of human shapes stretched out on pavement. And still others communicated even more eloquently the true sense of chaos and terror in their wild swings and broken glimpses through splattered lenses... meaning that the reporters had been drawn into the vortex of violence as well.

Hoynes sat there, elbows on knees, aghast at the carnage.

<I don't believe this is happening... it's like Beirut - right here - >

As the news continued relentlessly, it soon began to repeat itself and show the same images again, indicating that no new developments had occurred just yet. They still didn't know if the President, the First Daughter, or any other public figure had survived.

That repetition helped to settle his nerves. A bit. It was time to act. <And I have access to a source of information that the media does not.>

The Vice-President stood. "Wyatt, you've got to know more than this!"

The agent stood at attention, almost expressionless. Not quite. "Sir, I came to tell you as soon as we got it on wideband."

Of course there would have been at least some delay. With so many individuals under Secret Service protection, they used a different communication frequency for each detail, to guard against the air traffic getting clogged at a vital moment. However, in a real crisis the central HQ could transmit to every agent at large simultaneously - once they could spare their attention from co-ordinating the crisis itself.

"The President?"

"He's on his way home, sir."

Hoynes exhaled. "So if he has been injured, it's not serious. What about his daughter?"

"We're not sure just yet."

<Dear God, not that child!> "Has anyone contacted the First Lady?"

"Her own detail is already on it, sir."

<Am I glad I'm not the one who has to tell her... > Just imagine informing a wife and mother of a blood-bath like that - and not even having the certainty of her family's good health at the same time.

"And the President's staff - any word on them? They were right there with him... "

"Nothing to date, sir."

The Vice-President looked away, teeth grinding. He was familiar with most of those senior staff members just by bumping into them whenever he went to the White House. He had a special regard for Josh Lyman, who almost got him into the last presidential race two years ago. And Leo McGarry had brought him onto the Democratic ticket after that, championing his value and skills despite Bartlet's own doubts.

Hoynes had seen Josh that very afternoon... and he'd talked to Leo the day before...

The thought of either man dying, so soon after he'd shared counsel and friendship - never mind the President, for whom he had a genuine if envious respect - was like a knife twisting between the ribs. The almost physical pain grew with every second, and some of it shifted into outrage. <Why do popularity and fame always attract the wrong people?>

"What the hell *caused* this?"

"The information's still coming, sir. I'll keep you up to date."

"Do that. In fact, stay right here. I don't want you out of my hearing until I've got it all."

"Of course, sir."

Now Hoynes turned to his assistant, standing silent and numb to one side. "Patrick, we'll start the official wheels at once. Call up the Joint Chiefs and get them together in my office ASAP. We won't invade the White House just yet - they've got to be going insane over there right now - but at least if we're all in one place we'll get the latest information at the same time. Oh, and ask the Attorney General to join us, too; he'll be directly involved for sure. Then contact the other Cabinet members and the Speaker. I think they'd appreciate updates from the horse's mouth, no matter how late it is."

Patrick nodded, struggling to regain his professional demeanor. "I have all the home phone numbers, sir."

"You'd better recruit a couple of others around here for phone duty, just to speed things up. No telling where some of those workaholics may be at this hour. And you can bet that if they catch the news, they'll call in themselves."

"At once, sir."

"Good." Hoynes paused, running over his instructions once again to make sure he'd covered all the bases. "I'll call the President's secretary. Someone there should know that we're standing by. And then I've got to *try* to reach Leo."

"Excellent, sir."

A curious note in his assistant's voice made the Vice-President turn back. Patrick was positively beaming at him.

Hoynes frowned. "What?"

The secretary shook his head in pure admiration. "May I say, sir, that this is positively presidential of you."

Hoynes blinked. <Of me?>

And then his brow smoothed out as the penny dropped.

** The Twenty-fifth Amendment of the United States Constitution, Section Four: whenever the President is unable to discharge the powers and duties of his office, the Vice-President shall immediately assume the powers and duties of the office as Acting President. **

If a majority of the Cabinet declared the President unfit to continue as Chief Executive, then the Vice-President as heir apparent would take up the reins of the nation. And right now it must look very much as though Hoynes was not only rallying the Cabinet but gathering the Joint Chiefs themselves under his banner!

<Amazingly enough, in this whole business... I never even THOUGHT about that.>

Bemused at the truth to that realization, Hoynes saw how others might misinterpret as well. And none of them needed an error of such magnitude at such a time.

"Rest assured, Patrick: I'm not invoking the Twenty-fifth, and I'm not planning a military coup. The President appears to be relatively unscathed. And it would require more than a few bruises and a bad scare to destabilize him severely enough for me to take over. But we're going to be on the alert in case he calls us. Besides, for each step that information is relayed along, it becomes more distorted."

Patrick just stood there, staring at his boss... and his entire stance proclaimed disbelief - even disappointment. The Vice-President glanced over at Wyatt, half-expecting to see a similar look on his own ultra-reserved bodyguard.

<Does that seem so completely uncharacteristic? Can't my own people believe me on this particular subject?>

Hoynes drew himself up, his attitude stern. "Is that what you think of my ambitions, Patrick? All right, let me put it this way. Yes, I want to become President - but *not* over Bartlet's dead body! I'm perfectly content to let him finish his term... assuming he survives it. And no thanks to this evening's events. The least I can do is keep everyone informed and be there if I'm needed. Is that clear enough?"

His assistant retreated a step, taken aback that his effort to offer the grandest of compliments had boomeranged so badly. "Uh - yes, *sir*. I'll, uh, get right on the phone, sir." And he beat a very swift retreat.

The Vice-President watched him go, then sighed wearily.

"If that's any indication, then no one *else* will believe me, either," he grumbled.

Wyatt did not respond to that; it was not his place.

"Sir, we've just heard that Zoey Bartlet is safe and going home."

Part of the weight lifted. "Oh, wonderful!" But then Hoynes reminded himself that some others had to have fared less optimistically, judging by the blatant news footage. "Anything on anyone else?"

"Not yet, sir."

"Damn. This is going to be a very long night." The Vice-President ran a hand through his dark hair in frustration. "Tell them to get the car ready." And he picked up his phone.

*****


	7. Refiner's Fire 7

**Refiner's Fire**

**by: SheilaVR**

**Category(s):** Post-Ep  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Disclaimer:** This is an original short story spawned by the imagination of SheilaVR, based upon the creation of Aaron Sorkin, with the obligatory nod to Warner Brothers Television and NBC. No copyright infringement is actually intended, but no threat of same will stop me from fantasizing about "The West Wing" anyway...   
**Summary:** A frame-by-frame analysis of the last thirty seconds of the first season finale.  
**Authors Notes:** This plotline has no bearing on Mr. Sorkin's avowed intent to flashback to the Bartlet presidential campaign at the start of the new season.   
**Warning:** I refuse to glorify violence, even in fiction. I will never comprehend how any person could willingly hurt another. However, violence does exist, and by its very nature it is dramatic. What follows is a coolly realistic interpretation of events, based primarily upon a frame-by-frame analysis of the last thirty seconds of the first season finale. 

* * *

PART 7

*******

~ TIME INDEX: 00:50:19 ~

The Arlington Newseum was a full hour away from the White House - for ordinary mortals, during daylight hours, at a sane pace. The presidential motorcade, rarely less than half a mile long, might be granted permanent immunity from stoplights, but it seldom blazed through the streets hell-bent for election either. Tonight, between the low volume of traffic, the greater maneuverability of its scaled-down escort and the urgency of its purpose, it covered that distance in a lot less time - even after stopping briefly along the way.

Flanked fore and aft by a bare minimum of police cruisers and motorcycles, the lone black limo (there were never supposed to be less than two, just to confuse a potential attacker) passed through a predictable crush of barely-contained newshounds at the front gate, and pulled up before the brilliantly-lit pillars of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue with rather less ceremony, and far less accompaniment, than when it left earlier that evening... so very long ago. Time, after all, is relative. Considering how much had changed between departure and arrival, it might as well have been an interval of decades.

The moment that sleek pseudo-tank stopped moving a swarm of Secret Service agents descended upon it. The side door with the unmistakable seal was jerked open and at least three hands darted inside to lift their President out as carefully and quickly as possible.

He emerged unaided. Paused in full view, as though to assure the world of his well-being - or to gather his balance and strength. And flatly refused support from anyone.

"Oh, relax. I can manage fine on my own. You won't be rid of me just yet."

It was always a good sign when he could throw in a wisecrack.

The elite security organization, created for the sole purpose of protecting this man to the death, did not want to countermand his personal wishes; still, they weren't about to leave him unattended either. His tie was straight and his hair reasonably neat, but no quick-polish could hide the lethal-looking stains on his face and clothes. Nor could self-control disguise the weariness of his step, the hunch to his posture, or the strain in his eyes.

Nonetheless, he approached the north portico entrance under his own power, one step at a time, slow and steady... to where yet another crowd awaited. A strangely quiet one. These were all White House staffers: the people who worked closest with him. Most had already left once for the day, only to return the instant they heard the news. They simply could not be anywhere else but here, to see their leader return. Blessedly, in one piece.

He paused again, and gazed upon them all. And gave a single, stern nod.

The President was home. Back in command. Life could resume.

What that life would actually be *like*, after all this, was another matter. Certainly, judging from their Chief Executive's dark glower, there would be hell to pay at the very least.

In tense silence the gathering drew back as he advanced, clearing the entrance, not daring to get too close to him - with one exception.

Mandy Hampton didn't exactly bar his path; rather, she represented a final checkpoint that the President had to confront before he could permit himself to rest. As the White House public relations officer, granted a spot fairly high in its internal hierarchy, right now she was the closest thing to a senior staff member left him.

<We're really scraping the bottom of the barrel, huh? But that's the risk you run when you insist on having all your top people in one place... >

Like everyone else, her eyes were haunted by the shocking events of less than an hour ago. She had remained at work, following the live broadcast of the Town Hall event. Had shared the sense of accomplishment as the crowds applauded inside and cheered outside. Had watched in disbelief as shots rang out and people fell. Had stood there, horrified and powerless, beyond all possible harm herself yet present in every other way. *Wishing* she could be there. To revisit that atrocity - to compel her boss to revisit it - almost made her cringe.

Still, she held her ground and voiced the concern that filled every other mind present.

"Mr. President?" That simple, understated question carried throughout the astonishingly quiet entrance to the nation's premier residence.

<He looks like death warmed over.>

<What about the rest of our people? My friends... >

His pace slow yet inexorable, Bartlet did not swerve to avoid her. If she hadn't stepped aside at the last second, he might well have run her down. But not even this independent-to-a-fault political advisor could withstand the full force of his personality tonight, refined down to its critical mass, tempered in the furnace of fire and war.

"Don't ask," he told her brusquely, each word clipped short by stress. "You don't - want - to know."

Of course Mandy did; *everyone* was frantic to hear about him and the others, about who was all right and who *wasn't*. But for once she didn't challenge him directly. For all that subtlety went right against the grain with her, there were times when even she realized how unwelcome practical straightforwardness would be. So instead she fell into step, one length behind him, one length ahead of his beefed-up security unit, and hoped that her silent presence wouldn't feel like too much of an intrusion in his current state.

The President negotiated the historical corridors at a stiff, restrained march quite unlike his usual confident stride, fists clenched. Passing other staring employees without a glance; he seemed blind to anything but reaching the sanctuary of his own office. Mandy could sense how he was pushing himself, as though afraid his energy reserves might not last even that long.

No one would blame him if he collapsed. Everyone was praying he wouldn't.

Empathy was not one of Mandy's personal strengths, but her nerves tightened in compassion all the same. She wondered if he currently considered her just a pest, clinging to his heels, ever on the fringes of his awareness, denying him the peace he so deserved and needed.

If he threw political savvy to the winds and ordered her away, she would go. True, almost nothing about this couldn't wait at least a little while longer, until he had the physical and mental stability to handle it. Although it'd be so much easier on a lot of other people to get certain things rolling right away...

The overall atmosphere was stretched to the snapping point. No one knew precisely what had happened; no one knew quite how to react. Staff members watched the grim procession pass and then followed along, pleading voicelessly for answers, for guidance, for reassurance. At one juncture Mandy glimpsed Josh's assistant Donna Moss, her features a study in trepidation.

<She must be as worried about Josh as I am.>

<Amazing how that guy can still bring this out in me... >

It was hard, but Mandy shelved that for now. Josh she couldn't help. Others, she could.

Perhaps just being in these hallowed halls again, despite the thick miasma of uncertainty and near-panic, brought a little solace. Gradually, Bartlet's taut posture began to ease, and his expression lost some of its fierceness. Then, at the closed door to the Oval Office reception area, he stopped.

So did everyone else who'd been following. None of them said a word.

"Mandy."

"Sir?" Playing a discreet shadow had been the right move after all. She could have exhaled in relief if she weren't giving him her undivided attention.

He did not turn, one hand on the doorknob, his head bowed in what must have been a fatigue of the very soul.

"Right now we all know very little. When news does come in, I'll make sure it gets to you. If you could keep the staff informed and contact the relevant parties, please."

<What - as in family members of the deceased?> That image crashed down on her shoulders with the weight of an anvil.

"Uh, yes, sir." Like she would even consider refusing his request. Besides, at least this way she'd *know* - and she'd be providing a vital service desperately needed in any crisis. The sacrifice of her personal comfort was worth it.

Afterwards, inevitably, would come the more mundane tasks. There must be a press briefing. <(That's CJ's job...)> The President had to address the nation and reassure everyone that he was all right. <(Toby and Sam do the writing...)> And the White House did not stop functioning even now; its day-to-day operations must still be orchestrated. <(By Leo, with Josh...)>

Despite her lack of direct personal experience as Press Secretary, Communications *or* Chief of Staff, in a crunch Mandy could handle all of this. She'd have to; Bartlet simply had no one else. And she never gave a job less than her best.

It wasn't the sudden workload that perturbed her. It was the very real possibility that these valuable people, these vital individuals, these *friends*, would not be coming back -

The President might have guessed at her turmoil, if just from her silence. He glanced back once... and in his tired eyes she read that same dogged acceptance of duty.

"Thanks," he said simply, quietly. Offering the only reward possible: his deep personal gratitude.

It was more than enough.

And he opened the door and entered. Resigned to facing the business that could not be postponed, even now.

No one followed him... but no one left just yet, either. And Mandy and the closest agents could all see inside.

Mrs. Landingham sat at her desk, exactly as usual. The fact that it was after eleven o'clock seemed to have no bearing here. None of them could picture this matronly woman as being anywhere else... or, whatever the circumstances, less than perfectly serene.

Until now. Now she looked up from her desk - and stiffened in her chair. And then, slowly, she stood.

From the first day of his tenure, Jed Bartlet had entered into a battle of wits with this unflappable employee of eighteen years' experience and four administrations: a battle he always lost yet ever re-engaged in the perpetual hope of one day catching her off-guard.

By her stunned expression, that day had come at last. Only not quite in the manner he might have hoped.

He fell back on his favorite method of putting people at ease. "Mrs. Landingham, you were absolutely right. As usual."

His personal secretary did not reply, visibly uneased by the blood he wore and the various levels of anguish he projected.

"I won't get to watch that softball game after all."

Perhaps that was a little twitch to her mouth, the faintest indication of a return smile.

"Mr. President -?" she had to ask, her voice quivering just a bit.

He waved a dismissive hand. "Don't worry. I look a lot worse than I am." And continued resolutely onward, heading for the open door to his right.

"Let *me* be the judge of that!" a clear voice announced from inside.

Their Commander-in-Chief stopped short on the threshold.

Edging inside reception, Mandy could see past him to the Oval Office's unmistakable interior. Abigail Bartlet still wore the stylish emerald-green dress from her earlier engagement this evening, almost an hour ago: an engagement that had been abruptly terminated for one of the most distressing reasons imaginable. Her perfect formal appearance brought an extra element of unreality to the moment, but you wouldn't expect a wardrobe change to rank high on one's priorities when informed that one's husband had just been shot at. She did not look up right away, precisely laying out medical instruments on the "Resolute" desk itself as though prepared for major field surgery on the spot. She appeared pale - no surprise there - yet fully in control, buttressed by a doctor's hard-learned professionalism.

For the longest protracted heartbeat, the President did not move.

Tightly composed, the First Lady turned at last to face him.

Their eyes locked, transmitting thoughts and emotions known to no one else. What could a married couple of over thirty years, and incidentally the most powerful couple in the world, say to each other at such an intensely personal time? When the primal elements of their being lay in near-ruin, and neither had been absolutely certain before this instant that they would ever see each other again?

He drew himself up just a bit, trying not to stagger.

She inhaled carefully between clenched teeth.

The spectators beyond could not look away, caught up in a snapshot of eternity that did not belong to them, yet touched their hearts as well.

Then Bartlet took one step forward, and swung the door to the Oval Office closed behind him. Shutting out everything else.

*****


	8. Refiner's Fire 8

**Refiner's Fire**

**by: SheilaVR**

**Category(s):** Post-Ep  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Disclaimer:** This is an original short story spawned by the imagination of SheilaVR, based upon the creation of Aaron Sorkin, with the obligatory nod to Warner Brothers Television and NBC. No copyright infringement is actually intended, but no threat of same will stop me from fantasizing about "The West Wing" anyway...   
**Summary:** A frame-by-frame analysis of the last thirty seconds of the first season finale.  
**Authors Notes:** This plotline has no bearing on Mr. Sorkin's avowed intent to flashback to the Bartlet presidential campaign at the start of the new season.   
**Warning:** I refuse to glorify violence, even in fiction. I will never comprehend how any person could willingly hurt another. However, violence does exist, and by its very nature it is dramatic. What follows is a coolly realistic interpretation of events, based primarily upon a frame-by-frame analysis of the last thirty seconds of the first season finale. 

* * *

PART 8

*******

~ TIME INDEX: 00:58:52 ~

"They assured me Zoey's okay." Jed sat on the edge of his desk, sans jacket and tie, collar open and sleeves rolled up, letting his wife treat his scalp wound. The dried bloodstain that wasn't his stood out starkly in this well-lit room. "But they haven't let me speak to her yet."

He sighed wearily, too tired even to flinch at the sting of antiseptic. He'd refused Abbey's instruction to pick a chair, and she hadn't pushed; both of them feared that, once settled, he wouldn't make it to his feet again. And he had no intention of standing down just yet. His sense of dedication was impressive.

<And, in situations like this, downright infuriating.>

Both were over the initial lightheadedness of their reunion. Of course, the Secret Service had said that he was relatively all right, and Abbey knew they wouldn't bring him here if he weren't. But until he walked through that door, she hadn't quite dared to believe it...

"They don't know how the others are yet. They can't even tell me about Leo - "

"They will, as soon as they actually *have* something to tell you." She cleaned off the last of the blood that had hardened in his hair, bringing the nasty laceration into view. "It really hasn't been that long since this whole thing blew up."

"Yeah, I keep forgetting. Feels like it should be six weeks from tomorrow."

"Hmm. It's surprising how many phone calls *and* prayers you can fit into a single hour if you really try." Abbey reached for another gauze pad. Striving to preserve at least some emotional distance from the laden meaning behind that statement. "I got through to Elizabeth and Kristin. They're arranging their flights up even as we speak."

"I'll call them myself in a bit. They really should hold off a day or two; the Service will have enough to handle without *that* complication."

"Fine - *you* tell them their father doesn't want them around."

"All right, all right. At least we have an excuse for a family reunion. They've wanted to stay in the White House from day one."

Jed watched his wife for a few moments. And made a valiant attempt to lighten up. "You look great."

It worked: she couldn't prevent a brief grin. "I'm flattered you even noticed."

"I like to think I *always* notice what you're wearing. How was the dinner?"

She uttered a short, inarticulate sound. "Cut drastically short, as I'm sure you can imagine."

"For the record, this time it wasn't my fault." As if that needed saying.

"I was getting bored anyway." *That* had certainly been cured.

"Oh, and thanks for the small reception in my honor." By rights there should have been *some* medical brass present. Their absence was a massive relief, for *both* Bartlets.

Abbey didn't pause in her work. "I denied the presiding admiral an invitation," she stated tersely. She had claimed it as her right: clearly the President had suffered no serious injury, and was indisputably entitled to some family time alone.

She'd had to exercise every iota of her debating powers to negotiate that concession.

Her husband shook his head slightly in amazement. Few people indeed could talk the military out of its own regulations. "Sorry I missed *that*."

"Hold *still*." She clamped her free hand down on his skull, holding it in place.

He rolled his eyes. "Love your bedside manner, *Doc*."

"Trust me, you're better off dealing with that than some of the *other* things I'm currently feeling."

<Sure wish I didn't have to deal with them myself.>

Abbey had several reasons to agonize over Jed's condition right now. She'd known Leo almost as long as Jed himself. She'd come to know and like the entire White House (previously electoral campaign) senior staff. And no amount of official reports could convince her as to her daughter's good health until she saw it with her own eyes.

If not for her ability to concentrate, to provide a personal and valuable contribution towards the common goal, she wouldn't be in any coherent shape herself.

"I know how you feel," Jed commented, his tone soft yet firm. And he did, as surely as if his wife had just ticked off those thoughts out loud. Their minds worked a lot alike, and they knew each other very well indeed.

Abbey met his eyes for one second - his worry added to hers, threatening to overwhelm her - then forced herself to return to her task, masking worry with abruptness.

"Good; then you won't put yourself through this again anytime soon."

Or put *her* through it. The moment her own SSA had approached with a grimmer-than-usual attitude, she'd known to her core that the unthinkable had finally happened...

<Your heart really *DOES* drop like a stone. May I never experience that again... >

"Tell the Secret Service. I was just along for the ride."

"Oh, you can *bet* I'll tell them. Their efforts at protection would be rather circumvented if they kill you themselves."

Jed snorted weakly. "Maybe I should join the circus. This has been pretty good experience for the job of a human cannonball."

Abbey had no interest in joking with him. That was his control mechanism, not hers. "Good thing you've got such a hard skull. They should make it a prerequisite for this job. We'll get x-rays later, just to be sure, but there *might* not be a concussion." Her fingers probed the point of impact delicately.

"Better than the alternative." He inclined his head a bit, trying to be helpful.

"On almost anyone else, I'd agree." She gently grasped his jaw and rotated him back so that they were face to face. "But here, there are other factors to consider."

He pulled out of her touch with a frown. "I know what you're going to say - "

"And since when did you major in telepathy?" She leaned closer. "This is no time to pretend you're indestructible, Jed. You can't believe that bump is the *only* reason for your blackout. I daresay the events earlier were more than stressful enough to do it on their own!"

"Abbey - "

"You haven't stopped perspiring since you walked in here, and I very much doubt you've got enough strength to stand unaided. We've been through this before! There's a chink in your armor. Face it, before it *kills* you!"

Abbey was cracking and she knew it. It cost her dearly, but she reined the cold dread back again. Neither of them would benefit if she couldn't act decisively.

<Welcome to my double-barreled nightmare.> As if gun-waving terrorists weren't risk enough, a totally different kind of murderer lurked just under the surface all along...

Jed's reply was low and intense. "I'm not living to *total* denial, Abbey. The limo was no place to bring it up, with Ron bleeding all over. I sat back, I conserved my energy, and I brought it under control. There's something to be said for sheer willpower."

She sighed in pure exasperation. "That won't keep you out of the emergency ward." And reached for her medical bag on the desk between them, and pulled out a syringe.

Jed spotted the motion. "Put that away," he ordered - and *ordered* was the correct term. "I have to be able to think straight for awhile yet."

"No one can realistically expect that of you before tomorrow at least," Abbey countered, ignoring his command. "And you'll be in better shape for it then if you rest *now*."

In a sudden fury that startled her, he caught hold of her wrist, his grip not painful yet unbreakable. She froze, the syringe hovering between them like a weapon. "Not until I know!" She actually flinched, dangerously close to real fear. "I will not be coddled, Abbey. Not now. And it has nothing to do with this office we're in. I'm going to be here when our daughter comes home, and I'm going to stay until I learn the condition of every member of my staff."

<Honestly, sometimes there's no reasoning with the man.>

For one instant Abbey wanted to fight back, wanted to literally shake some sense into him. She was his wife *and* his doctor; her instincts were screaming at her to ship him off to bed at once, as in five minutes ago. One plays chicken with Multiple Sclerosis at one's own peril.

But sometimes survival itself pales before one's love for others.

His eyes bored into her, uncompromising. And at last she yielded.

"Okay." He did seem fairly stable, considering: worn out, sure, yet neither wan nor flushed. Another moderate delay at this point would push his full recovery back a few more hours, but nothing worse than that. They could both live with it.

Satisfied with her compliance, Jed let go. Abbey hesitated, a bit unsettled by the memory of that grasp, the only time in their lives that he'd *ever* directed physical force against her, before she packed the instrument away. Getting a much better picture of how badly jarred *he* was despite his external resilience.

She scrounged for something reassuring to them both. "Zoey should be here any moment, and the initial diagnoses can't take much longer."

Her husband bowed his head, clearly drained by his outburst. "I hope not." And paused. "On the other hand, I'd rather have it take all night, so long as the reports are *good*."

Abbey folded her arms. "I'll second that." But as the silence lengthened, her concern was for him alone.

He didn't look up. Then, "You knew I talked Zoey into going. I thought it'd be great to do a thing together. We hardly ever get the chance anymore." Another pause. "If I hadn't, what are the odds that those lunatics would've still gone ahead with their little demonstration?"

<Here we go... > "*Please* don't go blaming yourself, Jed."

He straightened, and she could see the torment blazing in his vision. "No? Not only did I put our little girl in the middle of a gunfight, but I led my closest colleagues and who knows how many innocent bystanders right into the crosshairs as well!"

"It's *not* your fault!" Abbey found herself shouting at him, slicing through the tension like a scalpel. As he turned away, unimpressed, she grabbed his near shoulder. Hard. "And if you keep insisting that it is, then I swear I'll sedate you right here!"

Still gazing off into another dimension, Jed weighed her words carefully.

"You probably would, too." Pause. "Fine; I'll shut up. For now."

She exhaled, releasing some of the stress. "About time."

<Score: one all.>

Except that this wasn't a game, by any possible interpretation. This was real life - with an appallingly-high price tag attached. And right now First Lady Abigail Bartlet would give just about anything she possessed to walk out of the White House this instant and never look back. <Let someone else provide target practice for the loonies of society.>

Of course Jed would never consider leaving, even after tonight. Presidents didn't quit, and Bartlets didn't quail.

But what about his family? How much did *their* views count? Was all this worth it? What did they have to pay as well, in support of his political ambitions?

And Abbey had her answer: they would stand by him, just as he would stand by the American people. Theirs was the responsibility, the example. To walk away would be to surrender, to give those gunmen the success they thought they deserved. And never would.

<Not a chance. We'll all get through this - together.>

With a smile like a pledge of fealty, she moved closer and wrapped her husband in a heart-to-heart embrace. Not caring one whit about the stains on his shirt.

He didn't resist, leaning heavily into her like an exhausted child. And their mutual anxieties eased a bit before the pervading comfort each brought to the other.

In this intimate quiet, the two light taps on the nearest office door sounded startlingly loud, and demanding.

Husband and wife both opened their eyes, then moved a bit apart. Not wanting an intrusion now of all times... but willing to permit it if said intrusion brought the news they so craved. Together, they looked around.

In this office, one does not wait for the occupant's permission to enter. If you aren't very well known or announced in advance, you don't presume to visit - especially in crisis. After a proper two-second pause the door opened a few degrees... and Leo stepped into view.

Jed and Abbey smiled in concert. One more specter laid to rest.

At the sight of the President and the First Lady - and, incidentally, his very dear friends - present together and looking reasonably well, the same kind of relief lit up Leo's haggard face. Then he swung the door open the rest of the way.

And a blur of ecstatic teenager bolted past him. *"DAD!"*

*"ZOEY!"* Jed pushed himself off his desk just in time to be virtually tackled. Abbey had to steady him from behind.

She didn't mind waiting a minute; it was normal for both of them to fixate on each other after the harrowing experience they'd been through. She felt content - almost - to watch her husband and her daughter joyously half-strangle each other, and to share in the supreme happiness of her family being complete once again.

"You really are okay! They wouldn't give me any details about you at all - "

"I know what you mean, sweetheart. We're going to have to work on the communications around here."

Abbey glanced at Leo. He had closed the door and was maintaining a discrete distance with politely averted eyes, but that didn't hide his grin at being able to make this great wish come true, for all of them.

<How could one define a truer friend?>

Jed moved Zoey out to arm's length. "Here, let me look at you. Are you hurt in any way?"

"No, I - " She recoiled with a cry at the gruesome red-brown smear across his ribs.

"Take it easy!" He gripped her tighter by both arms and peered earnestly into her huge eyes. "It's not mine. It's Ron Butterfield's. And he's going to pull through."

Abbey well remembered reacting in a similar fashion not very long ago. And Leo mirrored something of the same alarm as well.

Zoey moved in for another hug, just because. "I was so worried!"

"Well, I sure hope so! Because if I was the *only* one worrying my head off... "

A pointed *Ahem* told Jed that he'd ignored the other element of their family unit long enough. One who had worried every bit as much.

"Ah, yes. Come on in here, Mother." And he drew his wife into the cuddle.

It's not easy to hug two people at the same time, but all three did their best.

"Zoey, are you *sure* you're all right?"

"Yes, Mom. Gina protected me. But Charlie - " And Zoey's voice broke.

Jed and Abbey looked over at Leo in unison... and his now-somber expression said it all.

<Oh, *NO*... >

Zoey's feelings had been well and truly unleashed. "He was standing right beside me - and then there was gunfire everywhere, and Gina knocked him over and jammed me down, and then she had to take off, and he was just *lying* there - "

Jed eased out of their embrace, letting his wife take up the slack. "How bad, Leo?"

His Chief of Staff hesitated. "They took him to George W." And hesitated again. "Possible spinal damage."

Jed winced. Natural compassion aside, he'd become very fond of his personal aide.

Zoey was really shaking, and her grip on her mother tightened, as though, having found true security at last, she couldn't bear to be out of physical contact for a single second. Abbey hugged her closer in turn. Two many ups and downs, and severe ones at that; both her maternal senses and her medical training detected all the signs of hysteria.

Clearly her husband had the same thought. He caught her eye and nodded, sharing a wealth of information in that simple gesture.

Abbey nodded back just as economically. And turned again to their tearful daughter. "Come on, Zo. Let's go upstairs. We'll get the news there as quickly as anywhere else."

"No, let me stay - "

Jed gave her arm an encouraging rub. "Better go with Mom, sweetie. You need to rest. As soon as I hear anything about Charlie, I'll let you know."

Abbey jerked back towards him, assailed by another, older concern. "Jed - "

"Go on." The look in his eye brooked no objection. "I just want a minute with Leo." Here, finally, was the news that meant so much to him.

For a moment, Abbey felt completely torn in two; she just could not choose between leaving with her traumatized daughter and staying with her injured husband. Which of them needed her more? How could she be expected to prioritize her own *family?*

Mercifully, Leo broke the deadlock. He knew the full story behind that indecision. "This won't take long, Abbey. And then I'll bring him upstairs myself."

Jed gazed ceilingward, as though beseeching heaven to spare him the fuss.

His wife flashed a smile at the sight, so typical of him. <He has to be feeling better.> "I'm going to hold you to that, Leo."

Zoey darted a tortured glance back. "Dad - "

"The moment I hear anything," her father reiterated, and planted a kiss on her forehead. "And you can hold *me* to that."

She sniffled. "I will."

He squeezed her arm once more. Touched his wife's arm tenderly as well. And stepped back. And Abbey felt his eyes follow them as mother and daughter walked slowly from the Oval Office, still wrapped in each other's arms.

*****


	9. Refiner's Fire 9

**Refiner's Fire**

**by: SheilaVR**

**Category(s):** Post-Ep  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Disclaimer:** This is an original short story spawned by the imagination of SheilaVR, based upon the creation of Aaron Sorkin, with the obligatory nod to Warner Brothers Television and NBC. No copyright infringement is actually intended, but no threat of same will stop me from fantasizing about "The West Wing" anyway...   
**Summary:** A frame-by-frame analysis of the last thirty seconds of the first season finale.  
**Authors Notes:** This plotline has no bearing on Mr. Sorkin's avowed intent to flashback to the Bartlet presidential campaign at the start of the new season.   
**Warning:** I refuse to glorify violence, even in fiction. I will never comprehend how any person could willingly hurt another. However, violence does exist, and by its very nature it is dramatic. What follows is a coolly realistic interpretation of events, based primarily upon a frame-by-frame analysis of the last thirty seconds of the first season finale. 

* * *

PART 9

*******

~ TIME INDEX: 01:07:10 ~

Oh, to be a fly on the wall in *this* office... an invisible witness to decisions that could rock the foundations of the world.

The door closed behind the First Lady and the First Daughter, and there was silence.

The President of the United States and the White House Chief of Staff looked at each other for several seconds, the ordeal they had undergone stamped clearly on their faces.

Bartlet took the first step forward, disheveled, sleeves rolled up, formerly-white shirt plastered with blood. "Leo, you don't know how glad I am to see you."

McGarry advanced as well, limping slightly, yet his attire as perfect as for a new day. "Oh, I think I can guess," he assured his boss and old friend with a slight smile.

They grasped each other by the shoulders, as though to be sure the other was real, and well. And just stood there, savoring the relief.

"You're limping," the President said almost accusingly, drawing back and looking him over.

"A scrape. What happened to *you?*"

"I was thrown head-first into a wall."

McGarry grunted. "Human cannonball."

"That's *my* line. Don't steal my material."

"I'll try not to. Is there anything *else* to be concerned about?" the Chief of Staff asked, with pointed gravity.

Bartlet read into that apprehension and knew what he really meant. "Relax. It's under control." He didn't dodge the delicate matter completely, but his tone declared that it was not open for further discussion.

McGarry frowned. Clearly, though, he saw that arguing would be futile.

"And Leo... thanks for bringing Zoey." Amazing how much emotion one can cram into so few words.

"I wouldn't have had it any other way. She needed a friend. She's never been so upset, and naturally enough."

"And I couldn't be there for her." That came out almost as a snarl. "Damned regulations!" The President started to pace, fury building. "Why didn't the Service get her out of there sooner?"

"She had a vice-grip on Charlie's hand. It took all of my persuasion to get her to leave him." McGarry paused. "She finally had to choose between him... and you."

Silence.

Bartlet nodded, acknowledging his daughter's dilemma. And leaned back tiredly on the edge of his desk. "What can you tell me?"

His right-hand man came to stand beside the presidential seal, formally presenting his report. "The final count is still pending. There were too many casualties for one emergency ward, so they divvied up between GWU and Georgetown. About a dozen bystanders were hurt one way or another: bullet wounds, contusions, fractures... one middle-aged woman apparently had a heart attack. A couple of press members had to be treated, too; they got too close to the action. Four agents were hit that I know of - "

"You can add Ron to that list; we dropped him off on the way here." The President looked down at his stained shirt. "If not for him, this would be my own."

The ensuing quiet paid full tribute to a bodyguard fulfilling his ultimate role.

At last, "Cut the suspense, Leo, *please*."

"Sorry. It looks like Charlie was grazed as he fell; the bullet burned his neck and nicked one of his vertebrae, but at least it missed the major blood vessels. Hopefully the spinal cord itself wasn't affected. They'll know more once he comes around."

Bartlet's forehead developed a painful kink.

"Josh has a neat hole in and another one out on his left side. No internal organs were involved; he'll be back on his feet before too long. They say one more inch either way and the slug would have missed him... or *crippled* him."

The President shook his head in grateful wonder.

"Sam's got one bad cut in his arm and some small ones elsewhere from flying glass. They'll release him tonight. And Toby wasn't even scratched - just bruised."

Now McGarry hesitated - and his boss clenched his teeth. Four out of five were accounted for. The worst had been saved for last...

"CJ's critical. An abdominal bullet wound, broken ribs, and a skull fracture." Pause. "I don't know if she's out of surgery yet." Pause again. Each sentence quieter than the one before. "Her chances are about fifty-fifty."

Bartlet groaned as though he physically shared his Press Secretary's suffering. After a long moment he stood and wandered behind his desk, eyes on the floor. His Chief of Staff watched in equal anguish.

Both men looked noticeably older now than they had just two hours past.

"I've got to see her. *All* of them."

McGarry said what he had to say, regardless of what he *felt*. "Not yet."

The impact of an executive fist slamming down on that historic century-old-plus desktop made the penholder and paperweights jump.

"I don't care *how* risky it might be! I'm the leader of the most powerful nation on earth, and you're telling me I can't drive one mile to visit my friends in hospital - who wouldn't be there in the first place if not for me!"

"Give it a couple of days at least," McGarry advised, with full sympathy. "When things have calmed down a bit... and when you're feeling better."

"And how are we to know that CJ will *live* that long?"

Silence. No possible debate there.

"Forget the rule book. I'm going there tomorrow, and no one's stopping me. Not you, not Abbey, not the Secret Service - not all the guns in the world. Not even *myself*."

McGarry didn't waste his energy challenging that level of determination.

Finally the President came about again. Rage giving way, by reluctant degrees, to the demands of his office. "Leo... were there any *fatalities?*"

The somber delay in response was answer enough.

"One young man. Police think he jumped the fence trying to get away. Must've run right into the gunmen's sights."

Silence.

Bartlet released a deep breath and turned back to stare out the window at the peaceful night. "Just his bad luck. What a senseless way to die."

"I know it's no real consolation, but two of the assailants were killed by Service fire. The third has been arrested, with injuries."

The President's lip curled, like a predator baring teeth. "Pretty cold comfort."

McGarry looked down. "Yeah."

"What exactly *happened?*"

"Two young men got into the building next door to the Newseum somehow, and opened fire from a third-floor window. The rooftop snipers eliminated one and drilled the other. They had another guy in the crowd, ready to shoot whoever his pals missed. Gina spotted him in time and brought him down."

"Good for her," Bartlet said with a vicious approval, obviously not caring how someone might interpret his enthusiasm at the violent death of a teenage boy.

When he didn't get a confirmation this time, he spun back. And the sorrow on his best friend's face could not be denied.

"No... "

McGarry spoke in a near-whisper. "He got *her*, too."

Silence.

Slowly, the President closed his eyes and bowed his head.

"Oh, Leo... she was twenty-seven... had the world by the tail... "

His Chief of Staff offered the only commiseration there was. "She saved your daughter - and Charlie - and who knows how many more of us."

"And I'll make sure the world knows it. Especially her family." Bartlet rubbed his temple, blinking rapidly. "I wish I never had to make a call like this... "

The silence settled in thicker than ever. No words would suffice.

"Does Zoey know?"

"Not yet. She was so eaten up over you and Charlie all the way here... "

"I'll tell her. Later. Hell, as if she hasn't been through enough!"

Silence.

"I don't know about you, Leo, but the idea of having bodyguards in the first place has never felt right. I prefer to fight my own battles, thank you. Always hated the idea of others stepping in the way. Risking their very lives, just for me. Even standing here, I honestly don't feel important enough to merit that. And now that it's actually happened - " The President lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. "I feel positively sick."

McGarry nodded slightly. "Concurred, one hundred percent."

Silence.

"Who *were* those murderers, anyway? What were they trying to accomplish?"

"White supremacists." And no more needed to be said.

Bartlet's eyes flamed. "They were after Zoey and Charlie." He began to pace again, fists opening and closing as if in search of a neck to choke. "This'll make Zoey feel even worse - and I don't see how we can keep it from her."

Then he stopped, and drew himself up. Visibly assuming the mantle of avenger. "But we *can* keep the details from the press. Their names, their affiliation, the works. I don't want this movement to get any publicity *at all*. I won't let them be hailed as martyrs to their cause. If it's at all possible, I'm going to deny them *that* satisfaction at least."

McGarry was in full agreement. "Here, here."

Silence.

"I don't know how, Leo, but we're also going to have to deal with the staff's trauma. They'll be carrying some heavy-duty scars for awhile."

"We *all* will." Pause. "And so will the nation."

The presidential shoulders sagged. "Right... that's another thing."

"The address can wait a day. No one will blame you for taking some time off first."

"Not a problem. I'll prove to everyone that I'm alive and well."

McGarry offered a half-smile. "Good. You can start with the Vice-President."

His boss about-faced. "What?"

"He called me in the limo. He's got the Joint Chiefs gathered in the O.E.O.B. right now, and the entire Cabinet on yellow alert. In case you want to speak to them."

The President frowned dangerously. "Is that *all* he's doing?"

"That's what he said. No reason yet to disbelieve him."

"He'd better *not* give us a reason." The room temperature dropped a few degrees.

"I don't think he wants your job right now." McGarry raised a sardonic eyebrow. "Not after tonight."

Bartlet snorted. "No intelligent person would."

"The phones are ringing off the hook. But don't worry: no matter who they are or how desperately they want to speak to you, they have to get past Mrs. Landingham first."

"*And* Abbey." The President uttered a wry chuckle at being under the personal protection of two such determined women. "I couldn't be safer."

McGarry grinned as well in complete endorsement.

Bartlet glanced around at nothing in particular. "I suppose this is all over the news."

"Afraid so. There were photographers everywhere."

"And some of them got caught in the crossfire. I *thought* I spotted flashbulbs as Ron hustled me away. Imagine those idiots ignoring flying lead just to get shots of the evacuation. And the *victims*." The President's mouth hardened into a thin angry line. "If they hadn't already been published I'd try to confiscate every picture they took."

"Those guys value the story more than they do their lives. That's dedication for you."

"The gunmen were no less dedicated, in their own way. They couldn't have expected to get away." Pause. "You know, I simply cannot understand why anyone would even *think* about committing such a heartless act... much less actually go through with it."

"I know how you feel. I'm mad, too - "

"I'm too tired right now. I'll get mad tomorrow." Bartlet returned wearily to his perch on the edge of his desk.

McGarry stood silently, his concern for the physical and mental condition of his friend and leader self-evident.

"And all this happened because of me." The President waved a despairing hand at the historic chamber around them. "Because of this office."

This was the part where he would be reminded (again) that it wasn't his fault...

"Then why don't you hang it up?"

Bartlet looked up slowly, in pure amazement. "*What* did you say?"

"Let Hoynes pitch in."

Pause. "That's twice - and I *still* can't believe I heard you right."

"Just for a little while," McGarry clarified. "You deserve a break and a half, after what you and your family have been through."

The President regained his feet and advanced on his Chief of Staff, this time in anger. "And what's next? What's to stop me from handing *any* old thing over to Hoynes, just because I don't feel like dealing with it? *NO WAY.* I will not set *that* precedent. I'm not shirking my job, and I'm not giving in to emotional blackmail!"

He paused for breath, then continued in a less strident yet even harder tone. "But I'm not dragging anyone *else* into the firing line with me again, either. Once is one time too many. You all stay back where it's safe. I'll deal with this on my own."

McGarry studied him, perfectly calm. "You lead. We'll see who follows." Leaving no doubt that he himself would follow... anywhere.

Still seething a bit, Bartlet opened his mouth to pursue his point - and halted in sudden realization.

"You did that deliberately."

His best friend now wore a subtle smirk. "Got to keep the flames of purpose stoked somehow."

The President tried to maintain his scowl... and lost out to a spreading grin. "Man, I can't take you for face value in anything."

McGarry looked innocent. "Unpredictability is an asset around here."

"Okay, okay, you've made your point." Bartlet clapped him on one arm. And did not return to his desk, apparently having found a new strength. He stood tall, filled with fresh resolve, looking like a Commander-in-Chief should. "I'm reminded of a Bible quote about the refiner's fire. Well, I feel like I've been galvanized into the hardest steel around."

"Now that's what I wanted to hear."

Then the Chief of Staff fell back into his old managerial role. Business could be postponed only so long around here. "I'll brief the staff. They're all waiting right outside. The press are like starved wolves right now; Mandy can throw them a bone or two. And I'll reassure Hoynes and Company as well. Then I'm going back to the hospital to check on everyone."

"Pass along my best wishes, will you?" His boss grew solemn again. "And call me about CJ the *instant* you hear anything."

"Count on it. Why don't you turn in now?" It was high time the First Family had some undisturbed time together. To heal, in more ways than one.

The President sighed. "Not that I expect to sleep much. Thanks for everything, Leo... and I mean everything."

McGarry straightened proudly, asking only to serve. "United, we stand."

"Amen." And the two old friends shared a warm look and a strong handshake, declaring their partnership through thick and thin.

Then Bartlet let go as a new thought struck him. "Say, have you called Jenny and Mallory yet?"

McGarry hesitated at the mention of his own wife and daughter. "I didn't want to from the limo; not in front of Zoey. Not when she didn't know for sure about you."

"Call now."

"I'll see you upstairs first."

"And how often do you get to use my phone? Go on, already. They've got to be worried, too." The President crossed his arms and waited, clearly not about to go anywhere until his command had been obeyed.

His Chief of Staff exhaled. And smiled. "Thank you, Mr. President." That was the first time he'd resorted to his leader's title here tonight... like a signal that life was finally starting to return to normal.

And took one step forward.

And staggered.

Hardly expecting this, Bartlet lunged to his aid barely in time. "Whoa -!"

Suddenly breathing hard, McGarry leaned heavily on the executive desk and raised a trembling hand to his forehead. The film of perspiration hadn't been there a minute ago. "I'm... all right... "

"Like fun you are." The President was already supporting half his weight. "This isn't just a nervous reaction. What's the prob - "

And his gaze fell upon a peculiar shadow on the Oval Office carpet, right beside the great seal.

Except that it couldn't be a shadow. No such shadow had ever fallen there before. No, that was a bloodstain -

Bartlet's vision jumped back. McGarry's black suit effectively masked any hint of dampness the same way Ron's had. It was the small yet unmistakable tear in his lower left trouser leg that explained everything.

The President's fingers probed the horizontal slice, and came away dripping scarlet.

"My God, you've been bleeding all this time!"

"Just a scratch... " his friend maintained faintly.

"Shut up. That's an order. Come on, let's get you seated." Bartlet stepped in as a human crutch and manhandled him over to the nearest armchair. The one normally reserved for the Commander-in-Chief.

McGarry collapsed into it, all self-control at an end. That he'd ignored his wound this long was nothing short of miraculous, but there were mortal limits.

Panting from the exertion himself, the President dragged a hassock over and elevated the injury. Crimson blotches fell onto its embroidered surface almost at once.

"Dammit, Leo, someday your obsessive dedication is going to get you killed! And I can't do without you just yet."

He rose and dashed over to the door on the right. "Margaret! Get me a first-aid kit, *now!*" Then he turned and dashed over to the door on the left. "Mrs. Landingham! Call whoever's on medical duty and tell them to get down here at once! *Not* my wife; she has enough on her mind. And inform Mandy that I need to see her."

Slumped strengthless in the chair, head back, respirations strained and skin ashen, McGarry was fighting to stay conscious.

"I'm getting too old for this nonsense," he murmured.

"If you are, then so am I - and after that brilliant pep talk of yours, too." Bartlet gripped his shoulder, broadcasting alarm and support more effectively than any words. "I guess we know which one of us will be making those phone calls after all, huh?"

Margaret entered swiftly from the right, carrying a large white steel case with a red cross.

"Leo!" she gasped, and covered the last few feet at a run.

"Give me that," the President ordered, and dove into the medical supplies. He started with scissors, slicing the soaked pant leg open from the knee right down. "You can send me the bill, Leo. I'm good for it."

Blinking far too much, McGarry flickered a ghost of a smile. "Not worried... "

Acting intuitively, the Chief of Staff's secretary placed sterile dressings on the floor within easy presidential reach. Then she rose and used tissues to wipe her boss's face, steadying him all the while so that he didn't lose what balance he had left and tumble from his seat.

"Just rest, Leo," she told him soothingly. "You'll be fine." She kept her tone level - trying to believe it herself.

"Only if he gets a transfusion *fast*," Bartlet muttered, pressing a thick bandage to the still-persistent bloodflow. The bullet cut was shallow, but it had been draining his best friend's very life for over an hour.

"You know," he added more loudly, "this is the second time tonight that I've patched someone up. I could just about earn my merit badge in Scouts all over again."

The forced cheerfulness in his voice drew no reaction from his right-hand man at all.

*****


	10. Refiner's Fire 10

**Refiner's Fire**

**by: SheilaVR**

**Category(s):** Post-Ep  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Disclaimer:** This is an original short story spawned by the imagination of SheilaVR, based upon the creation of Aaron Sorkin, with the obligatory nod to Warner Brothers Television and NBC. No copyright infringement is actually intended, but no threat of same will stop me from fantasizing about "The West Wing" anyway...   
**Summary:** A frame-by-frame analysis of the last thirty seconds of the first season finale.  
**Authors Notes:** This plotline has no bearing on Mr. Sorkin's avowed intent to flashback to the Bartlet presidential campaign at the start of the new season.   
**Warning:** I refuse to glorify violence, even in fiction. I will never comprehend how any person could willingly hurt another. However, violence does exist, and by its very nature it is dramatic. What follows is a coolly realistic interpretation of events, based primarily upon a frame-by-frame analysis of the last thirty seconds of the first season finale. 

* * *

PART 10

********

~TIME INDEX: 02:20:49~

The George Washington University Medical Center had, over the years, acquired quite a reputation for medical excellence. And from its convenient location right in the beating heart of Washington, DC, it found plenty of opportunities to prove that to the highest strata of American society.

Tonight, it had risen to a national emergency with speed and precision, earning the gratitude of just about the entire country.

Sam wasn't impressed. He hated all hospitals, period. He could not comprehend how anyone might feel otherwise, even those who had chosen a career in medicine. Nothing else quite captured that unique bouquet of disinfectant, suffering, fear and despair. And although he naturally accepted the value of such aid in desperate times, he couldn't escape the impression of being smothered every minute he was inside.

This night was hardly going to be the exception.

He paced the same stretch of corridor ceaselessly, twenty paces each way, back and forth. His right arm rested in a white sling, his blazer hanging somewhat haphazardly off that shoulder. The earth-brown weave looked suspiciously torn and dark in spots, and only partially disguised the shredded shirtsleeve's corresponding reddish-brown stains. Every now and then he shivered, as yet unable to shake off the cold tendrils of fear. His face was still rather pale, which made the collection of treated scratches and nicks stand out even more vividly. And his hair managed to appear mussed despite its short length.

With every repetition of his self-appointed circuit, he laboriously dialed another number into his cellular phone, left-handed. And by the end of that circuit, every time, he hung up again without success.

Back and forth. Running through every number he could think of, one after another, over and over. Fighting futility and frustration in copious amounts. Chafing at this persistent uselessness, yet persevering anyway. Anything to keep his mind off the fact that he was in the emergency ward, and the reason *why* he was there.

Another call came up blank. Sam growled audibly and hit the disconnect stud. For a moment he stood still, eyes closed in the bone-deep weariness that he was finding harder and harder to keep at bay.

// CJ cried out, whether in fear or pain no one could say; something smashed the cruiser cherries into spectacular red and white fragments; Sam grimaced as he bore her down and more glass blew apart around them... //

Sam's eyes flew open with a start. And at once he started moving again, striving literally to outrun his own memories.

<I'm going to be haunted by that moment for the rest of my life.>

The slightest hint of noise or movement made him jump, as skittish as though he expected another gunfight to break out right here at any instant.

Off to one side, a black-suited Secret Service agent guarded the hall junction. Arms behind his back, virtually motionless, he might have been protecting a king's ransom in gold rather than an otherwise-empty corridor... and the occupants of the half-dozen recovery rooms running its sterile length.

By Sam's opinion, considering how much he personally valued the patients behind those plain numbered doors, there should be a lot more than one bodyguard present.

Actually, there were quite a few more about - just not in sight. This whole section of GWU had been locked down, and the other agents were keeping it that way. Hence the seeming lack of activity: those hospital personnel with direct business and proven clearance had already gained access and plunged into their work. No one else was allowed to come or go.

Nothing to do now but wait. And wait.

Back and forth. Pass the shut and ominously-silent doors one by one. Reach the end of the hall and about-face. Punch another number into the phone. Listen to the endless unanswered rings or aggravating busy signal. Hang up and try yet another.

The veil of fatigue steadily increased. But Sam pushed himself onward. Whenever he so much as paused, the past roared in and filled his senses with every bit as much realism as the first time around. And that, he couldn't bear.

He knew that the silent SSA followed his every move, alert for trouble on any front. The White House Deputy Communications Director ignored him as long as he could. Still, both of them knew who would break first...

At last Sam could stand it no longer. He swung around and approached his only possible source of information.

"Donnie, can't you tell me *anything?*"

It was a real plea - and not the first one, either. In less than two hours Sam had no idea how many times he's asked this same question. At first he'd tried to keep track, thinking that the growing repetitions would help him resist the urge to ask yet again, not wanting the agent to finally lose patience and pitch him down the hall. But the knowledge that Donnie had access to a two-way radio drew Sam as irresistibly as a moth to a flame, and sooner or later he simply had to try once more.

Typical of the Service, Donnie never shifted either in expression or in script. "Nothing, Mr. Seaborn."

Sam looked away with an exhalation that was almost a moan. What made him believe each time that he'd get a different answer?

In the returning quiet something *beeped*, and Sam twitched so violently he almost left the floor. Even Donnie reacted this time.

Then both looked at the cellular phone as it beeped again. Not from an incoming call, as Sam so dearly hoped... but from a new inability to receive *or* transmit at all. Its red charge light was blinking. The battery had been drained.

Sam's fist closed around the phone as though he was about to hurl it against the nearest wall. That would be pointless, and unwise in a secured area, but he hardly cared. His arm muscles tightened - and then went limp in defeat. And he let out a huge sigh.

"Well, there goes any chance of my being helpful, slim though it was."

Silence.

"The worst is that I don't even know if this thing was actually working before, or whether it broke after my gymnastic tumble to the pavement." Sam turned on the agent, his boyish features stiffening with resolve, and this time he would not accept no for an answer. "Either way, Donnie, like it or not, you're my court of last appeal."

"I'm sorry, sir, but I've already told you all I can. I can't call in for more details. It's too soon; we have to keep the channel clear as much as possible."

<So human feelings just aren't important enough, huh?>

Everything has its fracture point, and Sam had just reached his. A lawyer's training kicked into overdrive, fueled by sheer exasperation. He kept his voice level yet relentless. "Oh, by all means, don't waste the air-time. No doubt this evening's events are already all over the news, so there can't be too many people in the world who don't know at least something of what happened. By now the White House must be deluged with calls from reporters, politicians, dignitaries and frightened family members, which might explain why *I* couldn't get through. Certainly the actual condition of the President and his daughter has to be played down at all costs to avoid panicking the populace. Never mind that one of my closest colleagues is lying at death's doorway after my all-star attempt to spare her that very fate, or that the White House Chief of Staff was admitted with a severe blood loss almost two hours later than he should have been. I know at least four people personally who deserve to learn about their relatives' injuries from a friend rather than the morning edition, which is a common courtesy that should be granted to *every* individual. I am effectively locked in here like everyone else by you *and* by the doctors, meaning I can't report to my boss - who, let it not be forgotten, is the single most powerful man in the world. And now my cell phone has effectively given up the ghost, and it happens that I have no cash with me at all, as I honestly did not anticipate needing change for public calls when I *have* a cell phone. To top it all off, the lines at the nursing stations are even more off-limits than your comlink. And I'd like to remind you that said comlink exists for the sole purpose of transmitting information about the President and those closest to him... which, incidentally, happens to include me."

Silence. The two men eyed each other, one catching his breath, the other still unmoved.

"I'm preaching to the choir here," Sam realized finally, quietly.

Donnie actually flashed a grin, just for one instant.

After another long moment, Sam nodded in utter resignation. He'd used the last of his energy and had nothing left. Slowly, he wandered over to the opposite wall and leaned his forehead against its cool surface. Eyes screwed tight against the constant kaleidoscope of pain and death.

// CJ crying out, guns exploding, glass flying, bodies diving to the ground... //

"Mr. Seaborn."

He spun around fast enough to suffer whiplash.

Donnie held something out to him. A piece of paper.

A five-dollar bill.

Sam stared at it uncomprehendingly for several seconds.

"Take it," the agent pressed, in a kinder tone than he'd yet used this evening. "Get some change, and find a pay phone."

Despite having been trained in eloquence, and having demonstrated his proficiency in the same mere heartbeats ago, Sam was at a total loss for words. What he finally did come up with would not win any kudos for speech-writing. "I never thought you guys carried money."

Donnie shrugged. "Normally, we're not supposed to. We can take what we need." That *had* to be a joke, even though he didn't smile this time. "But I always feel kind of naked without at least a few bucks on hand."

<Wow. They're human after all. Who'd have thought?>

He still offered the bill. "Go on. Call whomever you can. It'll do *you* good, too."

Shaking his head in bemusement, Sam accepted the loan. "Thanks. A lot."

"Don't mention it. *Ever.*" And some of the old Secret Service dominance returned.

"Gotcha." Sam finally managed a grin of his own. "I don't suppose you want to be looked upon as a walking bank machine, right?"

Donnie was trying to regain his imposing image. With only partial success. "You got that right. *Sir.*"

*****


	11. Refiner's Fire 11

**Refiner's Fire**

**by: SheilaVR**

**Category(s):** Post-Ep  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Disclaimer:** This is an original short story spawned by the imagination of SheilaVR, based upon the creation of Aaron Sorkin, with the obligatory nod to Warner Brothers Television and NBC. No copyright infringement is actually intended, but no threat of same will stop me from fantasizing about "The West Wing" anyway...   
**Summary:** A frame-by-frame analysis of the last thirty seconds of the first season finale.  
**Authors Notes:** This plotline has no bearing on Mr. Sorkin's avowed intent to flashback to the Bartlet presidential campaign at the start of the new season.   
**Warning:** I refuse to glorify violence, even in fiction. I will never comprehend how any person could willingly hurt another. However, violence does exist, and by its very nature it is dramatic. What follows is a coolly realistic interpretation of events, based primarily upon a frame-by-frame analysis of the last thirty seconds of the first season finale. 

* * *

PART 11

*******

~ TIME INDEX: 06:35:30 ~

When your job is to spend almost every waking moment in the presence of a world leader, you eventually become accustomed to the high levels of protocol, responsibility and security that are never far away. In fact, it can be fascinating to see that public image from the other side, the side that the average person will never behold. To observe greatness at its most human and humanity at its most impressive. To linger in the background, useful, almost invisible, known by few, appreciated by fewer - besides The Man himself.

To share the spotlight... and the danger. And when you stand that close to the President's shadow, you can't deny that the danger is very real.

<And yet, you can still convince yourself that nothing will ever really happen. Not in this day and age. Not to him - not to you.>

Charlie fiddled with the TV remote, flipping through channels absently, not really caring what was on. Except, that is, for the news reports, which he promptly bypassed. He didn't want to hear any more about *that*. He wanted noise, distraction, total irrelevance... anything rather than dwell on his uncomfortable posture and his spinning mind. He'd be doing little else over the next few days, anyway.

For a twenty-one-year-old in such a unique political niche, he knew more about violence than almost anyone else he worked around, including the President himself. The Young family history bore its own tragic blood trail.

At least, Charlie could have claimed that greater experience before tonight. But in a span of mere seconds the playing field had been brutally leveled.

// Gina whirled, in obvious alarm; Charlie and Zoey both turned to follow her eye; two human shapes staring down at them from a red-lit upper window; flashes of white blooming around their hands... //

The President's personal aide tried to shift a bit, but no position hurt less. Although the doctor had permitted him to sit up in bed, his back and neck were still locked rigidly in a straight line. He felt half-strangled, aside from the ever-growing ache as the painkillers faded. Still, he had fared far better than some people. He would walk out of here in a week.

<Actually, I remember very little. Probably should be grateful for that, too.>

Even so, sleep remained elusive. His imagination filled in dramatically everywhere his actual recollection failed.

Someone knocked softly, hesitantly on the door. In the most automatic of reflexes, Charlie tried to turn that way. And was brought up short by the brace and the pain together. He bit back a groan and reminded himself one more time not to try that again.

Meanwhile, concerned by the lack of an audible reaction, his visitor cracked open the door and peered tentatively around it.

"Hey."

"Hey!" It wasn't a doctor or nurse as expected, but a veritable ray of sunshine. Charlie felt a smile spread across his face despite the persistent discomfort. He'd heard that his girlfriend had come through the action intact, but to have it proven beat all reports hollow.

Zoey didn't move, just staring uneasily at him. As though, for some inexplicable reason, she was afraid to enter.

Charlie possessed a natural sense of humor, and being constantly around the President of the United States had honed it. Amazing how a laugh can break the thickest ice.

<If it works for the leader of the free world... >

"I'm sorry I can't stand up for you right now."

Sure enough, the President's daughter smiled, sharing that fond memory of the day she'd first expressed her interest in him. And let herself inside, closing the door behind.

Still, she kept her distance. Clearly off-balance at seeing him so incapacitated. Clearly remembering *why*. She fidgeted in place and scrambled for something to say that didn't sound too dumb. "So, uh... how are you doing?"

"I'm not contagious, if that's what you mean."

This time Zoey giggled, getting the point, and walked over to take his hand. "Are the reports actually as good as they're telling me?" The giggle died at once, and her features fell into what must have become very familiar worry lines over the last few hours.

Charlie raised eyebrows. "Well, I don't know what they're telling *you*, but they're telling *me* that there's no real damage. One bone got a little shave, is all. They're just making me be careful for awhile yet."

"Oh, what a relief." Zoey bit her lip to keep it from quivering.

"It's great to see you. I wasn't sure if they'd even let you in here." He had resigned himself to not receiving a visit from her at all.

"I didn't give them any choice. They finally agreed, thinking the wee hours would be a bit less hectic." Her taut expression declared loud and clear what she thought of the necessary precautions that had kept her away so long. "The press are still camped out all over the place. I almost thought we'd have to plow right through them. *Why* can't they leave us alone, just for *once?*"

Charlie agreed with the sentiment - and he didn't like the dark glitter in her eyes. <I'm already angry enough for both of us.>

"I'm really glad you came by. But isn't it past your bedtime?"

That furious look evaporated at once. "You know, you're hanging around my dad way too much."

He shrugged - or rather, tried to. "There are worse influences."

Zoey grinned, willing to be cheered up. Now she cocked her head and gave him a frank once-over. "You look like a priest." The white support collar around his neck did bear a slight ecclesiastic resemblance.

Charlie considered that. "It's appropriate; your father confesses to me on a regular basis."

"About *what?*"

"Uh-uh. Sanctity of the confessional."

Zoey pretended to smack him. "You - "

"And *you*," he interrupted, "look like an angel." And Charlie didn't mean that just because she hadn't been hurt like so many others this night.

She blushed and dropped her gaze. "That is so corny."

"Doesn't make it any less true."

Flattery can work wonders. Her smile widening, Zoey sat down in the chair beside his bed, scooting it as close as possible so that he didn't have to strain to see her.

A gentle quiet settled around them.

"How are your parents doing?" And that was not just polite conversation. Nor was it just the concern of a citizen for his Commander-in-Chief, or an employee for his boss.

She hesitated. They had few secrets between them, but Charlie almost wondered... "Well enough. Mostly tired. Dad has a bump on his head bigger than a golf ball. Mom's shifted into her protective mode."

"Bet she's wishing I was there to help."

"Yeah, she could use it." They shared a knowing smile. The President was never the most cooperative of patients. "I finally got to meet your sister. She's great."

Charlie started to nod, and failed. "Oh, I know it. She was in here a little while ago."

"Well, now she's at the White House."

That statement made his eyes bug. Zoey laughed in delight at so thoroughly surprising him.

"We invited her to stay with us until you get out of here."

"I'm sure Deena didn't let you ask twice. She's dreamed of visiting ever since I started to work there." Charlie relaxed with a big grin. "Please tell your folks how grateful I am."

"Hey, it's the least we can do." And then Zoey's amusement faded. Again. "You know, you don't have to do this to yourself just to arrange a sleep-over at my place."

He'd lost the fun for the moment, too. "I'll remember that."

Another pause fell... but this one filled the room with sadness.

Zoey looked down, blinking. "I guess... you know about Gina?"

Charlie tried to nod again, and failed again. He'd pestered Sam, and anyone else who dropped by, until they finally told him everything. The truth wasn't as bad as not knowing - but the margin of difference was pretty small. "Yeah."

The First Daughter's voice dropped to a whisper. "I've had bodyguards for awhile now. But none of them have ever been hurt before. And she was a *friend*."

He said nothing; just squeezed her hand a bit tighter.

"And she died believing she'd failed us." The tears fell unchecked now.

Charlie drew her hand closer so that he could hold it in both of his. "Gina died doing her job. That's what she would have wanted." It was hardly comforting, but the best he could offer. Death has a way of slicing through all the platitudes and good intentions.

Zoey glanced aside, as though she could find answers written on the far wall. "Maybe... but *I* sure didn't want it. And what about all the others? They showed up to support us, not protect us. It wasn't *their* job to get shot!"

Charlie could see where this was going. "It's not your fault - "

She leaped to her feet, yanking out of his grasp. "Yes, it *IS!* It's all because of who I am! I happen to live in the White House, so people think I should do what *they* want! Two people are *DEAD*, thanks to me!"

Charlie sighed, feeling just as anguished. "No, it's thanks to *me*. Even in the land of the free, I don't have the same liberty you have. But I didn't want to admit it - and look what happened. If I weren't black, our dating wouldn't be a problem for anyone."

Zoey knit her brow. "Don't be ridiculous. No one can blame you. You didn't choose your own skin color!"

This was almost funny: each of them arguing for the right to claim responsibility, while denying it to the other.

And Charlie experienced a sudden flash of insight: *neither* of them was at fault. That might seem like an obvious conclusion to anyone else - but when your own decisions led to the cause, it could be hard to think rationally and reason things out.

<Now how do I tell HER that?>

"Well, you didn't choose to be the President's daughter." He selected his words carefully. "Hey, let's hang this on your father instead. He's the guy who chose to tackle one of the most demanding and risky jobs around."

Zoey turned away, struggling with her upheaval of emotions. Yet the point behind those words hovered between them.

"He's already blamed himself. Mom's been trying to talk him out of it ever since."

Charlie couldn't prevent a smile. <I can just picture that.> He'd been around the First Couple often enough. "Your mom's right on the money. Just because some nutcases don't like you, or me, or your dad, we can't let them stop us from being anything but ourselves."

It took several more seconds, but Zoey released the worst of the tension at last.

"You're right." Although she couldn't resist adding, "For once."

He didn't mind - her teasing him was far better than her castigating herself. "I have to be *once* in a while. And this time I'm not apologizing for something I didn't do."

Zoey snickered, likewise remembering the way she'd accepted the apology he never made, just so she could say she'd won the argument.

However, for both of them that comical image led inevitably to the moment when they stood with Gina beside the limousine last night, in those final precious heartbeats before the world exploded... never to be the same again...

The First Daughter returned to her chair, reclaimed her boyfriend's hand, and looked through her tears right into his eyes. "Charlie, I can't stand the thought of putting you in danger again. I can't." Her voice quavered. "If you had died - "

The President's personal aide experienced all her concern, all her fear, all her - love, as vividly as though they were his own.

<This is worth fighting for.>

"So what do we do? Wait until you dad leaves office in two years - or six?"

*"NOT."* Zoey couldn't accept that idea any more than he wanted to. "I know: let's use some of those secrets you hinted at, and arrange an impeachment."

For one instant Charlie thought she was serious. Her determination to protect him, her father and her own choices from world opinion, from those who liked to inflict pain, from the Presidency itself if need be, burned with an almost visible flame.

<That sounds a whole lot like "I love you"... >

But she wasn't the only one to take a stand for what she valued most.

"Zoey, your father isn't going to back down because someone threatens him. And neither will I. I intend to stick this out." He increased the pressure on her hand, like a permanent bond. "With *both* of you."

This time the silence felt positively warm, matched by the glow that effused Zoey's face. She wiped away her tears, as though dismissing depression for all time. And then, in an expressive acceptance of his promise and his oblique challenge, she leaned forward and kissed him.

*****


	12. Refiner's Fire 12

**Refiner's Fire**

**by: SheilaVR**

**Category(s):** Post-Ep  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Disclaimer:** This is an original short story spawned by the imagination of SheilaVR, based upon the creation of Aaron Sorkin, with the obligatory nod to Warner Brothers Television and NBC. No copyright infringement is actually intended, but no threat of same will stop me from fantasizing about "The West Wing" anyway...   
**Summary:** A frame-by-frame analysis of the last thirty seconds of the first season finale.  
**Authors Notes:** This plotline has no bearing on Mr. Sorkin's avowed intent to flashback to the Bartlet presidential campaign at the start of the new season.   
**Warning:** I refuse to glorify violence, even in fiction. I will never comprehend how any person could willingly hurt another. However, violence does exist, and by its very nature it is dramatic. What follows is a coolly realistic interpretation of events, based primarily upon a frame-by-frame analysis of the last thirty seconds of the first season finale. 

* * *

PART 12

********

~ TIME INDEX: 12:12:17 ~

By midmorning Margaret was well past the twenty-four-hour mark of what had become a thirty-six-hour shift, but she never stopped moving long enough to let the fatigue register. Like almost everyone else in the West Wing today, she had plugged straight through the night and didn't intent to quit anytime soon; there was just too much work to do. And like everyone else, she was running on sheer nervous energy.

None of them took time out for a proper meal, casual conversation by the water cooler or a friendly chat on the phone. People grabbed high-caloric snacks from dispensing machines and ate at their desks or on the run - those with any appetite in the first place. They focused on their tasks with a collective grim determination, not wasting words on frivolous discussion. And they boycotted the phones en masse, except when calling *out*.

Everywhere you went, the phones rang. Some employees finally turned their ringers off. The central switchboard of the White House was swamped. *Anyone* could dial up the public number; all DC guidebooks published it, as this was supposed to be the House of the People. Many citizens claimed that right today, out of both concern and curiosity. Those calls that got through almost always received a weary admission that no further news had been received, and a more or less polite request to free the line. A lot of political operators knew the direct numbers to the senior staff, having enjoyed personal business dealings at some previous time, and they seized that advantage to learn more from closer to the source... yet they met with an equal resistance to discuss anything - on those rare occasions when someone chose to answer.

The Chief of Staff's phone added to this continuous cacophony; those with access to *his* number clearly believed themselves entitled to special treatment. Margaret steadfastly resisted the impulse to pick up, letting the computerized voice-mail service do its job. Considering how much she was on the move, shuttling reports and files and God knew what else, she had a convenient excuse and she welcomed the chance to exploit it.

<Would everyone just get out of our face! You don't think we have enough to do?>

As one might expect, even in these ultra-trying circumstances Mrs. Landingham was an oasis of calm. She remained at her desk all night and through the day, fielding messages as smoothly as a practiced police officer directs rush hour traffic. Of course, the calls to *this* phone were almost exclusively from diplomats, the highest business profiles in America, or foreign heads of state. Their volume provided a strong testimonial to the effectiveness of telecommunications.

<I'll bet most of Europe heard what happened before I did.>

Margaret had spent the full twelve hours past berating herself for turning off the news coverage just after the Town Hall meeting ended - just before all hell broke loose. The terror-stricken cries that had echoed down the corridor some five minutes later continued to haunt the recesses of her mind. She had no logical reason to feel so guilty - no one could have predicted an unleashing of such savage violence - yet one thought still endured: <I was sitting here, safe and oblivious, while they were being gunned down wholesale... >

For most of that endless first hour, few had succeeded in prying themselves away from the TV banks. The images kept coming, replayed over and over, each time through just a bit more awful. One scene in particular Margaret had no doubt she would never forget: the President caught in the first moment of surprise as agents swept in to protect him... an indistinct, dark-red blotch plainly visible right over his chest. Only after several repeat viewings (every station slowed that tape down to analyze frame by frame) could *anyone* be convinced that it was simply his tie. But for a single heart-stopping instant there -

<We could so easily have been watching him die.>

The pervading tension could have been carved with a letter opener. Staffers of all levels scuttled frantically in all directions. Normally discreet and reserved, the Secret Service was now prominent and menacing. Security requirements had skyrocketed, likewise the press activity both inside and out. Every TV and radio remained off, and newspapers lay ignored; they all screamed the same headlines, and no one wanted to dwell on that anymore. When people spoke, they did so in hushed and anxious tones. Some conflicting reports still persisted on exactly who'd been hurt, and how badly, but the absence of the entire senior staff spelled everything out in block letters. Concern, grief, and actual fear lingered in each pair of eyes, inescapable.

<It's astounding that we can even function.>

Any chore that could be put off was back-benched without a second thought. Almost every employee abandoned his or her normal duties at some point and dove into tasks he or she had never done before. Decisions that just couldn't wait had to be made on the spot, without the benefit of those most experienced individuals who had always made them in the past.

<Thanks God for the workload. At least it's a distraction, right when we need distracting the most.>

Mandy seemed to be everywhere; she was doing a tremendous job of general co-ordination in such a chaotic setting with no chance to prepare. Any breath of news, and she saw that it got out; any question on something that didn't compute, and she found out in jig time. She updated the press, obtained input from the senior staff assistants on how their bosses would have handled certain matters, and assigned new jobs left and right as needed. Margaret ran across her constantly in the halls, and each time felt a surge of gratitude - despite the unpleasant association with those missing people for whom Mandy was struggling to substitute. Just the appearance of someone in control went a long way towards stabilizing the atmosphere.

<Some people sure rise to the occasion. I hope I can keep up!>

The First Lady was another visible presence. Not only had she brought in her own staff, all of them providing welcome manpower and capable skills, but she did her utmost to assume the far-from-ceremonial role of leadership and encouragement that her husband would have provided had he been able. Everyone knew the President had sustained a head injury and Zoey was still quite distraught; everyone recognized Mrs. Bartlet's frequent donation of her valuable time away from her family to buck up the staff laboring away belowstairs.

<That woman is made of iron. I'm more of a nervous wreck than she is!>

Of course, the greatest percentage of anxiety was reserved for the President himself. All agreed that he needed to rest, despite the desire and genuine *need* of his employees to see him back at the helm. All were glad that his wife insisted he take it easy, as all knew full well he never would otherwise. And all were comforted by the First Lady's assurance that he would bounce back after just a few more hours. Still... whispers of constitutional implications continued to crop up now and then, as tenacious as lobster claws. All had no doubt that the Vice-President was ready and eager to leap in at the first chance.

<As if we don't have enough upheaval already!>

Somewhere around eight Sam arrived, finally released from the hospital as both a patient and a *de facto* prisoner. Everyone mobbed him at once, but he knew little that they hadn't already heard. The poor guy had been through the coffee mill more than once and looked about ready to fall over. He did confirm that Toby was unhurt, that Leo was responding well to treatment, that Josh and Charlie would come out of this little the worse for wear - eventually... and that as yet CJ showed no sign of improvement.

<The waiting is always the worst... especially when it's someone's LIFE... >

Through the pre-dawn hours Margaret had passed by Danny's desk several times. Clearly the redheaded reporter was driving himself to concentrate - with an even lower success rate than the rest of them. He didn't have the benefit of a specific work plan to follow, a predefined task that would at least keep him busy. Most often she caught him staring into space.

<And no points for guessing who's on his mind.>

Personally, Margaret found Mallory O'Brien's visit the hardest to face. Both of them were especially worried about Leo, if for different reasons. Mallory had grown up very close to the Bartlets; it was quite natural for her to drop in on them after she had been to see her father, and she made a point to speak with his assistant as well. Margaret appreciated the gesture, but she did not want to revisit the memory of the Chief of Staff's blood seeping into the Oval Office carpet. It brought her own emotions desperately near the surface. If they broke free, she doubted she'd be able to force them back inside again, and she wouldn't be able to work otherwise.

<This is what I get for actually liking my boss. Not your usual fringe benefit.>

Time for another trip around to deliver the latest download of files, reports and instructions. To push the weariness back and shove the painful thoughts aside. Arms full, Margaret passed through Leo's vacant office and the equally-empty Oval Office into reception. Ever on the phone, Mrs. Landingham silently nodded her way. In the corner opposite, Charlie's desk likewise sat unoccupied, like another entry on the casualty list. Margaret tried to disregard this fact as she picked up a document from his inbox that couldn't be put off any longer and proceeded out towards the bullpens. In rapid sequence she circulated between Donna, Ginger, Cathy, Bonnie, Carol and more than twenty others, each of them slaving away and exchanging only a bare minimum of conversation. All knew this was but the latest of a long morning, with an even longer afternoon to follow.

<Just let us get through this day. Then maybe the world will return to normal.>

<Will we ever know "normal" again?>

The strange, uncharacteristic ban on raised voices continued. However, an observant eye would detect other communication on a deeper level. Wherever Margaret went, whenever she paused beside one of her colleagues, each woman - and several men, too - touched her lightly on the arm or hand. No more than that. Yet it seemed to weave a common thread that bound them all together, that helped them strengthen each other to endure. And their shared glances contained a wealth of feeling.

They weren't just a loose affiliation of individuals, each going his or her own way, doing a job because their contracts demanded it. They were a welded unit, focused on a higher purpose and a common goal... and none of them had to face the present or the future alone.

By the time she got back to her own desk, Margaret felt somewhat lighter of heart.

<This is what friendship is for.>

*****


	13. Refiner's Fire 13

**Refiner's Fire**

**by: SheilaVR**

**Category(s):** Post-Ep  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Disclaimer:** This is an original short story spawned by the imagination of SheilaVR, based upon the creation of Aaron Sorkin, with the obligatory nod to Warner Brothers Television and NBC. No copyright infringement is actually intended, but no threat of same will stop me from fantasizing about "The West Wing" anyway...   
**Summary:** A frame-by-frame analysis of the last thirty seconds of the first season finale.  
**Authors Notes:** This plotline has no bearing on Mr. Sorkin's avowed intent to flashback to the Bartlet presidential campaign at the start of the new season.   
**Warning:** I refuse to glorify violence, even in fiction. I will never comprehend how any person could willingly hurt another. However, violence does exist, and by its very nature it is dramatic. What follows is a coolly realistic interpretation of events, based primarily upon a frame-by-frame analysis of the last thirty seconds of the first season finale. 

* * *

PART 13

********

~ TIME INDEX: 18:44:26 ~

Donna crept down the silent hospital corridors, hugging her carry bag, wishing she wore tennis shoes - never mind what they'd look like with her pantsuit - or any kind of rubber sole that didn't echo off the walls. Each footfall sounded like... a gunshot.

<That subject has been kind of on the brain lately.>

A few medical personnel drifted around, focused on their individual tasks, but the illusion of business as usual wouldn't fool anyone: the veritable army of Secret Service agents with their hard expressions, stiff postures and invisible yet guaranteed artillery pressed down like a funeral pall. Everyone tiptoed around them; no one wanted to make a move that ran the slightest risk of attracting their official attention.

All White House employees grew at least partly accustomed to working around this eternal presence and its fearsome reputation. That, however, was under normal operations. Here the level of alertness hummed almost audibly. The world's premier protection force had been caught out by one *incident*, and did not intend to permit any semblance of an encore. As though they were just waiting for something else to go even slightly wrong, so that they could act with utter ruthlessness... and wash away the bitter taste of failure.

Donna had been cleared to visit; she never would have made it even indoors otherwise. She did not know her way around, yet had no need to ask directions; a chain of black business suits marked her route rather more blatantly than the traditional breadcrumbs. She followed their glances, and in a few less tense cases their nods, around corners, down halls and past doors, feeling with every step that she was descending endlessly into a dungeon from which she and her fellow staffers could never escape.

If anyone had considered the level of security high around the President and his closest people before this, they were suddenly wishing for a return to those idyllic days.

At last she reached her destination. Hesitated there, debating whether or not to knock. Not wanting to awaken the occupant, but not wanting to barge in unannounced either. Not wanting to see the weakness, the pain, the helplessness... yet unable to stay away for those very same reasons. She stood in the agony of indecision for what felt like ages, before she finally gathered her nerve and tapped softly.

No response.

She inched the door open enough to sneak a glance.

"Josh?" In only the barest whisper.

He was there. Eyes closed. Hooked up to every piece of machinery in the room.

Donna slipped in and eased the door shut. At first she couldn't bring herself to move any closer, as though that might somehow threaten his delicate condition - and then she couldn't stay back. Without a sound she settled into the visitor's chair on the bed's right side.

And just looked at him. Compared to the stark walls, pillow and sheets his face looked a little less white, but not much. At least his breathing did not sound strained, the cardiograph beeped regularly, and he wasn't on oxygen, a respirator, or life support. The equally-white hospital gown showed no bloodspots, the bed's upper half had been raised several degrees, and both arms rested on top of the covers in a very natural manner as though placed by him rather than someone else. Still, he looked so frail, so still, so *un-Josh* that it terrified her.

<They insist he'll be fine. No complications. No permanent injury. Nothing to worry about.>

<Why am I finding it so hard to believe that?>

Suddenly Donna couldn't take the silence any longer. In all the months she and her boss had worked together they'd never shared *quiet*; their days were spent playfully baiting each other and arguing about the most unimportant things. They shared humor, sarcasm and an ongoing debate over just how much he did or did not rely on her to keep his head straight. Their peculiar, tight-knit friendship thrived on noise.

This place didn't exactly encourage noise; she kept her tone down automatically. "Josh, if you're in there someplace, I'd appreciate you letting me know."

No reaction.

"Fine. I'll just sit here and wait; I've got all evening. After a full day and a half, what's a few more hours? But if you don't have the grace to wake up before they finally kick me out of here, you're going to hear about it later."

Nothing.

Donna glanced around at the small, featureless room. "Boy, you'd think they could have given you a window." Of course, the Service would hardly permit *that* risk just now.

She turned back, and a fond smile peeked through. "Honestly, Josh, we can't take you anywhere. It seems that something is bound to happen the moment I let you out of my sight." Even so feeble an attempt as that was better than the silence.

Nothing.

"Well, if you *had* to miss a day's work, at least it was the most hectic day we've ever had. You almost have my envy."

Nothing.

"On the other hand, I can't get any work done at all unless you're looming right over my shoulder. If you don't come back soon the White House is going to fall apart."

Nothing.

"Just on the offhand chance you're interested, we the junior staff have managed not to foul things up too badly without you - so far." The effort at levity faded. "Let me tell you, that first hour was pure torture. I mean, I know you like to deliberately keep me out of the loop, but this was just a *bit* excessive, and any court in the land will back me up. Consider yourself lucky to be lying there, or else I'd hold you personally responsible."

Not even a flicker.

Donna looked at her twitching hands. "Not that I've been *that* worried about you. I don't doubt for a minute that you'll be fine. You're so desperate to win at least one argument with me, you'll drag yourself back from death's doorway." She paused, blinking. "You'd *better* come back. I might even be persuaded to let you win for once."

Her gaze lifted... and she realized that Josh's expression had changed. Not much: just a subtle hint around his eyes and mouth...

Donna's brows drew together, but her quiet tone didn't alter in the least. "Of course no one else would *dare* kill you - that's a pleasure I've reserved for myself. And I'll exercise it right here if you don't open your eyes right *now*."

"Damn." Slowly, Josh smiled. With his eyes still shut, he looked almost cherubic. "You just woke me out of the most incredible dream: my assistant was saying that she actually cared for me."

"And now I'm saying I'm going to clean your clock." <The NERVE of him lying there and listening to me like that - >

He turned his head to look at her, quite smug about his safety. "There are Secret Service guys all over the place."

"Don't think that'll stop me."

He laughed, sounding like his usual brash self. "Such a mix of compassion and violence. Well, the next time I want your sympathy and your abuse, I'll know just what to do."

"The abuse is guaranteed." She tried hard not to smile, but her annoyance was losing ground to her relief.

"Perfect. I don't hurt anywhere near enough." Josh didn't give her a chance to comment on that. "So, where are my flowers?"

Donna studied him. "You never bring *me* flowers. Why should I bring *you* flowers?"

"I've never visited you in a hospital, either."

"It's the man's duty to bring the flowers, Josh. No wonder your romances don't last, but at least now we know why."

He dodged that last crack. "Well, the next time I know I'm going to wind up here, I'll order ahead. What *did* you bring me?"

She folded her arms. "For a guy at my mercy, you seem pretty cocky about me bringing you *anything*."

"I'm the invalid, and I'm also the boss. It's expected." He waggled his eyebrows, rakish and pleading at the same time.

"Josh, they're searching everyone they let into this armed fortress. They even confiscated my calculator. I can hardly smuggle in a GameBoy for your entertainment."

He exhaled in disappointment. "So much for that hope. Just to make you feel better, you're not the only one subjected to torture of late. First the boredom; then the menu. Have *you* ever eaten in one of these joints? I'm absolutely convinced they make the scrambled eggs out of Play-Dough."

Donna shook her head resignedly. And reached into her carry bag, and pulled out a package of black licorice twists.

"These may not be your favorite, but not even you can get crumbs in your sheets from licorice."

Josh grinned and accepted her gift eagerly. "The nurses will thank you." Of course, *he* didn't thank her. Not in so many words, at least.

Unable to resist, she reached out and touched his tousled hair, trying to brush it into place. Deliberately avoiding his gaze; she had no idea quite how he'd react. And, just as deliberately, she raised a new topic to distract him as she sat back again.

"Oh, and I have a message from Mandy. She sends her worst."

The red herring worked; Josh didn't comment on that now-past moment of extra-affectionate attention. Whether he *forgot* about it, Donna did not know. "Typical of her."

"Yes, she said that she's learning your job so well, by the time you get out of here you'll be able to retire."

His ready retaliation was killed by a knock at the door.

"Perfect timing," Donna smirked. "Come in!"

Of all likely candidates, it was Leo. He walked laboriously with the aid of a cane, and looked older and wearier than Donna could ever remember, but otherwise might have come straight from the White House. "Am I interrupting?"

<Some people just don't know how to take it easy. This must be where Josh gets it.>

Josh scowled. "What are you doing up already?" he demanded, not at all like a subordinate to his supervisor, but rather like a young man to an older friend for whom he felt responsible - or a son to an ailing father. Any impression of anxiety, however, was ruined one second later. "They won't even let me out of bed yet!"

"I have more experience at recuperation," the Chief of Staff boasted as he hobbled over and rested his free hand on the back of Donna's chair for added balance.

Josh pretended to grump. "Nuts. I was looking forward to trying out that office of yours for a *little* while."

"In your dreams." Leo raised his cane and planted its rubber ferrule lightly against Josh's ribs - the closer, uninjured side. "I see you out of this bed before the doctor says you can, and I'll put you back in it myself. The hard way." But the comradely grin he gave his deputy belied the threat to his words.

Josh clasped his hands across his chest. "Well, this is a banner Pick On Josh Day. Not that that's unusual, for either of you." Which made Donna snicker. "Hey, anything new on CJ?"

Leo's lined features sagged. "No," he said softly.

Josh's head fell back with a dispirited sigh, all humor gone.

Donna bit her lip. <The suspense is awful... she's GOT to pull through - >

In the West Wing, pessimism was not tolerated. Besides, with the sheer volume of concern and prayers all round, not just here but throughout the entire country, CJ simply *had* to recover. <We won't accept anything less.>

Full national support must count for *something!*

Josh peered left and right, as though searching for escape from all his medical attachments. "I gotta go see her."

Leo rolled his eyes, in a manner suggesting he'd heard that somewhere else before.

"You can't go anywhere yet," Donna stated, regretful yet firm.

Josh sighed again. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Forget the fact that she's almost my sister, and that she's right next door... "

Then he turned back to his assistant. "Would you go for me?" And Donna had never heard quite that note of pleading in his voice before.

"Of course." It would be the least she could do - for Josh, for CJ, and for *herself*.

She stood. "Heavens, Leo, have a seat." Their Chief of Staff had lost a dreadful amount of blood last night; that sort of thing isn't fully remedied in less than a day. And she knew - as did everyone else in DC and beyond - that due to his medical history Leo couldn't avail himself of so much as an aspirin. Even at a time like this.

"No, thanks. I have other rounds to make." Apparently pain, exhaustion and general weakness were minor considerations here; Leo simply denied them permission to intrude. He braced himself against the chair, hooked the cane over one arm, reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a sealed white envelope. "The President's hoping to visit later tonight, but in the meantime I've been demoted to his personal mailman."

Donna relayed the envelope, sparing both men the need to stretch. Josh accepted it almost reverently. His first name had been written on the front... and not by any secretary. Jed Bartlet's flamboyant penmanship could not be mistaken.

All three shared a meaningful look, a look steeped in quiet emotion. This was one time their Chief Executive had not delegated the paperwork. These private letters meant far too much to him - and to his people as well.

*****


	14. Refiner's Fire 14

**Refiner's Fire**

**by: SheilaVR**

**Category(s):** Post-Ep  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Disclaimer:** This is an original short story spawned by the imagination of SheilaVR, based upon the creation of Aaron Sorkin, with the obligatory nod to Warner Brothers Television and NBC. No copyright infringement is actually intended, but no threat of same will stop me from fantasizing about "The West Wing" anyway...   
**Summary:** A frame-by-frame analysis of the last thirty seconds of the first season finale.  
**Authors Notes:** This plotline has no bearing on Mr. Sorkin's avowed intent to flashback to the Bartlet presidential campaign at the start of the new season.   
**Warning:** I refuse to glorify violence, even in fiction. I will never comprehend how any person could willingly hurt another. However, violence does exist, and by its very nature it is dramatic. What follows is a coolly realistic interpretation of events, based primarily upon a frame-by-frame analysis of the last thirty seconds of the first season finale. 

* * *

PART 14

********

~ TIME INDEX: 20:56:08 ~

In the twilight realm of unconsciousness, time is not a constant. Some people revive with no awareness of a lapse at all. For others the moments seem to drag at an excruciatingly slow pace, each sensation stretched out forever. Some dream, most often yet not always of recent events, and those that remember usually describe dreams more real than they ever experienced before. Patients may awaken suddenly, or level by level; some are subjected to wild disorientation, while others recall exactly where they are and what happened. On rare occasions they even perceive some of the activity and sounds around them during their blackout, as though a special self-defense mechanism in the brain doesn't completely shut down.

Of course, drugs and injuries tend to have different overall effects. And the amount of trauma to the body plays an important role in recovery as well.

In this specific case the end result was about as merciful as it could be hoped. No delirium, no virtual fights with demons, no prolonged and torturous journey trapped in the past. Just one delicious heartbeat of gentle darkness and perfect peace, like drifting up from sleep on the first day of a long-awaited vacation.

And then the pain center came online.

CJ lurched back to life with blowtorches attacking her on all fronts, explosions bursting against her eyes, and screams ringing in her ears.

// People scattered in every direction, gunfire ripped through the night air; someone or something slammed into her, *HARD*; she started to buckle, reaching out for help, for anyone... //

She tried to scream again, but the anguish wouldn't let her -

"CJ. CJ! Easy, now. Calm down... it's over... you're safe... "

A soft voice. A man's voice. A *friend's* voice. It sounded distant, yet rose firmly above the panic, compassionate, unshakable, giving her something solid to hold onto once again. She clung to it with all the feeble strength she had, in utter desperation, convinced that it was her only chance to save her sanity.

And gradually, by infinitesimal degrees, the waves of horror that volleyed her back and forth began to subside.

Trembling from shock, gasping for air, she struggled to speak. To think. But all she could do was hear, and *feel*. Feel the acid that burned its way through her ribs, the needles driven into her skull. Hear the laboring sigh of her own lungs, the rumbling surge of her pulse - and the soft voice that stayed with her, that didn't leave her alone.

"Hang in there... you're going to be all right... "

She trusted that voice. <I will be all right. I will. I will... >

The pain did not want to let go. She fought it. Other voices came, strange and less reassuring; she had no energy to spare for them. The gentle voice of a friend always returned, always a little nearer, and it was that which at last lifted her all the way to the surface.

It took ages to focus on anything. Indistinct whiteness surrounded her - except for a dark shadow to one side, as soft and steady and comforting as the voice. A human form, bit by bit gaining color and detail.

<I know you... >

Her tongue had turned to sandpaper; still, she accomplished one tiny whisper.

"Toby?"

"CJ," the friend's voice said in simple reply, and this time she detected an undercurrent that sounded almost like joy.

He sat there beside her, as patient as Time.

The mere sight of him, rumpled and impassive and unhurt, temporarily evicted her fear. He looked so perfectly normal, she *had* to be safe.

She could see a white ceiling and walls now, but no one else; those other voices must have come and gone.

<Who... and where... >

"How do you feel?" Toby asked in his soft tone.

The pain had begun to make up its mind and settle into specific locations. CJ noticed a stiff vice around her waist, a hot pressure that objected to every breath - never mind the out-of-tune symphony banging away between her ears.

And she noticed, too, the unmistakable beep and hum of hospital equipment. Very close by.

*Hospital.* The panic came roaring back. <WHAT HAPPENED TO ME?>

Toby must have read it on her face. "Relax. It's okay. Just rest."

She didn't want to be consoled now. She wanted to know. "What... "

He sighed. "You got in the way of some flying lead, that's all."

His typical deadpan attitude calmed her somewhat, despite the frightening reference.

"Do you remember?" And from the thinly-cloaked urgency she picked up in those three words, her answer would be of considerable importance.

Hold on: there *was* something. An evening event. Lots of people. Pistol shots. Impact -

Slowly, CJ blinked; nodding was impossible. <Then it wasn't just a dream... >

In the lengthening quiet she swallowed, with difficulty, and braced herself. Holding his gaze, begging for the truth. "How... bad... "

For the first time, Toby shifted. "Well, I'm afraid you'll be in here awhile. They had to take out a few inches of intestine and some bone splinters; and you really gave your head a whack. But you're gonna be fine, CJ. You've got my word on it."

For several long seconds, she just lay there and processed that information.

<I was shot.>

Her pain increased everywhere at the very concept.

<They had to operate.>

One arm moved, weakly, questing. Fingers ran over the hospital blanket, the tangible bulge of bandages underneath, the linen medical gown, the wires tracking her vital signs, the rubber tube feeding into her nose, the thick wrap around her head.

<I'm healing. I'm going to make it.>

Then it occurred to her that others had been involved as well.

"You...?" Every sound rasped her throat anew, but she couldn't give in to that now. Not until she found out *everything*.

"Just thoroughly black and blue. I was run over by one stampede of Secret Service and another of reporters."

CJ had to grin, briefly, at his nonchalant wording. No doubt he planned it that way.

Plus, he sounded distinctly pleased by her questions. How odd; Toby was one of the most impatient men she'd ever met. He hated Q and A sessions of any kind.

But then, she realized, these questions proved that her mind still worked, refuting the horrendous possibility of brain damage.

She shivered. <Please, not that... >

Vague memories continued to nibble their way upward, thrusting concern for herself aside. "Sam?" He had been there, just two feet off - if *she'd* been hit -

"A few cuts. Nothing serious."

Relief swept in, bathing her in warmth.

"He did his best to protect you."

CJ wanted to brand that fact into her mind. If not for Sam...

But there were other names, other friends. <Think!>

Toby must have figured that her powers of recollection were batting less than a thousand just now. "Josh and Charlie are in here as well. They had narrow squeaks of their own, but they'll be up and around before long. And Leo's already back on the job, which he *shouldn't* be."

That comment made her smile again. How like Leo...

Then the association hit. Her whole body jerked, eyes staring. "President -!"

"He's safe." Toby broke through this fresh tide of apprehension. "Both he and Zoey are in the White House."

CJ went limp. And heaved a gigantic sigh, heedless of the extra fire it caused.

<He's okay. Someone shot at us, but they're both okay.>

<The nation will survive.>

"Actually, from what I hear, the President is quite miffed at you right now."

That made her stare again. " 'Cause I... didn't duck?"

Toby's mouth quirked in the familiar laconic way. "No; because he was all set to come here himself. He spent most of the day arguing with security for the right to visit, in case you... took a turn for the worst." The Communications Director paused, his features now more somber than ever, then finished on a less distressing note. "When your condition finally picked up a little while ago, he lost the fight."

"Oh." If not for the persistent pain, CJ would have chuckled. "Sorry... "

Well, she wasn't *really*. As the highest-ranking woman on the President's staff, she knew that Bartlet regarded her with a special affection. Still, she was just as glad not to give him an excuse to come to her deathbed.

"Probably better in the long run. It seems he got knocked around a bit by his own detail. The First Lady wants to keep tabs on him for awhile yet."

Toby paused again, and took a deep breath. "You gave all of us a real scare, CJ. *Please* don't do it again." And the anxiety shone in his solemn eyes.

<Like I enjoy putting myself and everyone else through this... >

"Promise." She had no strength to raise her hand, but she slid it across the blanket towards him as far as she could reach. Searching for a lifeline.

He hesitated only a moment before covering it with his own.

"And you're all right, too... " CJ had never known such overriding relief. To think that he or *any* of her friends could have so easily been *killed -!*

This time Toby did not look at her. "Yeah, well, I personally don't *feel* all right."

Her brows lowered in puzzlement. <Why not?> He didn't have to look forward to days or weeks of painful convalescence...

Ah - guilt. Remorse that he alone of them all had come through uninjured. And Toby never did handle extremes of emotion well.

Well, she'd just have to make it clear that there was no need to -

He spoke first, denying her that opportunity. Plainly not wanting to hear it. "There's some medication here for you. Looks to me like the first dose has worn off. Do you suppose I can talk you into taking a pill or two?"

<Oh, I hate those things!> Still, endless effort to focus through constant pain was wearing CJ out that much faster. The possibility of a drink settled it; her mouth and throat still felt like parchment several centuries old. "... Water?"

Toby projected pleasure at this encouraging sign, somehow without any perceptible shift in his expression. As usual. "Of course. Allow me." He rose and moved to a perch on the edge of the bed beside her. Exhibiting a gentleness she had never before associated with him, he eased his left arm under her head and shoulders and very carefully raised her upper half a few degrees. Placed two white capsules in her palm, then supported her strengthless hand to her mouth. Held a cup to her lips and tipped it carefully until she managed to swallow. And gently set her back down again, made sure she was as comfortable as her injuries would allow, and returned to his chair. And, in the preserved silence, curled his fingers around hers again.

Even though he'd done most of the work, CJ found herself too short of breath from her own exertions to offer so much as a thank-you. She spent the next several seconds concentrating on just her need for air. The binding around her waist didn't help any. <Not even a corset can be worse than this... >

"By the way, your family's been contacted. Some of them are driving in tonight."

<Damn, I never thought of them before now!>

Exhaustion bore down more and more insistently, but she was determined not to give in to it yet. "Gonna be mad... scaring them like this... "

"Don't worry; we'll protect you."

She could just imagine him defending her against irate relatives. A smile peeped out.

It didn't last long, though. <God, I'm tired. Should sleep... feel better later... >

Still, he hadn't yet told her what had actually happened, or just how badly Leo, Josh and Charlie had been hurt - or about any other casualties she didn't know. Surely, after that endless barrage of leaden hail she wasn't the *only* gunshot victim!

CJ opened her mouth to ask - and another jolt by that ferocious headache made her flinch and clamp her eyes shut in protest.

It also derailed her train of thought. <What was I going to...?>

Toby waited, watching the pain rise and ebb, unable to do otherwise. She wanted him to anticipate her query, in some superhuman fashion to read her very mind. But he could hardly be expected to perceive the question when she'd lost it herself.

"You know, this has been a real drop-in center of late. And once the news of your comeback gets out, I predict that the traffic will escalate."

<Really?> How kind. "Try to stay... awake next time... "

"Good."

Pause.

"Also," and his voice grew softer than ever, "this afternoon the Secret Service finally agreed to grant Danny visiting rights. He'll be along any time."

CJ rotated her head as far as it would go. "Danny... " How could she have forgotten about *him* of all people? <He's okay, too - and he must be worried sick about me!>

Toby looked down again. "Yeah. Well, he wasn't directly involved in the incident, he's not family, and he is a newsman. I guess in their mind that's all three strikes. I had some fun convincing them otherwise."

"You won... " No surprise; Toby Ziegler rarely lost a debate, with anyone.

"Oh, sure. I felt like a good argument, and it helped pass the time."

That attempt at a joke didn't quite come off. He sounded almost - regretful of his decision.

Regretful... *why?*

The attraction between CJ and Danny was an open secret in the West Wing, although they tried to disguise it - or sometimes even bury it - with conflict. Toby had done a huge favor for both of them... why *regret*...

And the idea slipped through her fingers, no matter how hard she tried to hold onto it.

<Are they SURE there's no brain damage? No, I refuse to believe that... >

Hopefully the memory would come back later. At least she knew Danny was on his way.

Toby glanced aside, then around - anywhere except at her.

She made a severe effort, and squeezed his hand. Capturing his attention.

"Thanks... really generous."

One could interpret her comment a few different ways. However, not even CJ herself tried to read anything into it. By now her eyelids felt so heavy it just was not worth the constant work to keep them open, and she missed any visible reaction he might have shown.

But she did feel his hand squeeze back.

The quiet stretched out, a most amiable sharing...

The sound of a new voice took some time to penetrate. <Dozed off in front of visitors again. How rude - >

The pain had withdrawn, though, to a slightly more tolerable level. That alone made the nap worth it.

"... more or less under control. Almost everyone's finally gone home. Beats me how we got through the entire day without somebody keeling over. They've all earned a mega-bonus. We should petition Congress."

"I hope they didn't do *too* good a job, or else the President will finally realize that he doesn't need *us*."

"Rest assured, no one's volunteering for a shift like that again. Speaking of which, you could use a break yourself. You've been here all day; you need a meal and some air."

"And you need to be writing the President's address."

"He wants to do this one himself."

Pause. Then, very softly, "*Uh*-oh."

"*You* try to talk him out of it. I'd like to see that. And besides, it would get you out of here for awhile."

"I'll wait until Danny arrives. I don't want her alone."

"We can get a nurse for an hour; things are looking up now."

"Or, you could stay yourself."

Pause. "Um... not just yet. Anyway, my job right now is to look after *you*. Go on, blow this joint before you put down roots or something. Now there's another idea - why not go and see your brother? After all, you had good reason to worry about him yesterday, and he got back safely with perfect timing to worry about you in turn."

"I've already spoken to David. And to Andrea, before you ask. There's nothing I can do for either of them, and nothing they can do for me, so I might as well stay here."

"Toby, you're the last of an endangered species: the uninjured White House senior staffer. We can't afford to have *you* bunk out here as well."

By now CJ had scrounged up the energy somehow to open her eyes again. Toby still sat beside her, as though the passage of time held no meaning for him, and he still held her hand.

And standing beside him...

"Sam?" The near-whisper didn't carry far at all.

Both men heard her, though, and whirled in unison.

"CJ!" Sam grinned quickly - yet something didn't ring quite natural. Like Toby, his attire had seen better days. *Un*like Toby, his boyish features were decorated with several small cuts, and his right arm rested in a sling.

Just looking at her, he seemed to shrink together. In fact, he stepped back a pace. Suddenly, for no apparent reason, appearing very nervous.

"Wow, I'm glad you're awake. 'Cause, like, you know, we were worried. All of us. But hey, you're doing better now, huh? That's - that's great. What a relief."

He shuffled feet, and his posture grew more awkward by the second. "Listen, uh, I'd love to stay, but, you see, I really can't. I gotta... I gotta go. Do something. Tell everyone the good news." He edged towards the door. "But I'll, um, I'll drop by again later. You know, when you feel more like company. Okay? So, uh - well, see you."

He opened the door with far more eagerness than necessary.

"Wait... "

CJ didn't want him to leave. And she had no idea why *he* wanted to leave. He was so strangely off-balance, unwilling to linger in her presence, to even face her...

He checked on the threshold, not turning around, shoulders hunched as though anticipating a blow from behind.

"Sam... " Toby said in a low, warning tone. Daring him not to comply.

A long moment ticked past. Then the Deputy Communications Director exhaled, and let the door swing shut in front of him. And slowly revolved in place. Not coming any closer.

<You'd think he's afraid of me.> CJ wondered briefly about that, but she wasn't up to mental games right now. She could hardly see him from this angle. She strove to project her faint volume through the eternal tiredness, up from her low bed, across the small room.

"Want... to thank you."

Sam shook his head. He didn't look the least bit pleased by her gratitude. He looked - demoralized. And he seemed to have an extraordinarily hard time meeting her gaze. "No, CJ, I don't deserve your thanks."

Of *course* he did. "Protected me... " It didn't matter that she'd still been hurt. But for his efforts, she might have been killed outright. Which made him a bonafide hero to her and to anyone else with a human soul.

"Toby told you that, did he?" Sam rubbed his left hand over his scratched face, and exhaled again. "Well, he didn't want to upset you. But let me tell you what *really* happened."

He moved a few steps nearer, more into her visual range. She could read his features plainly now: they portrayed nothing but shame. He straightened, as though facing a judge.

"I saw you hit, CJ. The gunmen may have been aiming for the agent that ran right in front of you just then; I don't know. But I can still hear the cry you made. I tried to get you under cover." He had to close his eyes for one tortured heartbeat. "I tackled you to the ground. And I landed on top." And paused again. "I broke your ribs, CJ. And I smashed your head against the pavement. *I almost killed you myself.*"

The ensuing silence seemed to shout accusations.

"And then Sam covered you with his own body," Toby commented evenly, as though picking up a simple storyline of moderate interest. "So that any other shots - or glass shards, for that matter - would have to go through him first."

And in that deceptively reserved statement, Sam's motives were exposed for all to see. As well as the price he'd paid, evidenced by his bloodstained sleeve.

The younger man glared at his boss. "I did far more harm than good, and everyone knows it."

<He really does blame himself for this.>

"Not so... " And weakness couldn't hide the tremor of emotion in CJ's thin voice.

Toby still held her right hand. She stretched out the left, in a mute plea.

At first she thought Sam would refuse. He wore his guilt like the mark of Cain. But finally, uncertainly, he came over to her other side, and took her hand, very gently, in his.

"Forgive me?" he begged in the most plaintive of tones.

She smiled. "Nothing to forgive. Thanks... for being there... and here."

Their eyes locked, communicating on an almost telepathic level.

Slowly, as though at last yielding up a crushing burden he had borne for the entire day, a burden that she of all people had the right to insist he was not obligated to bear, he smiled back. A *real* smile this time.

*This* silence contained nothing but friendship.

CJ ached to sleep again, but elusive questions still pestered her. It was like trying to catch fish barehanded; she couldn't hold onto any of them long enough to get the words out.

Wait; there's one. "... Time is it?"

Toby checked his watch. "Almost seven-thirty."

"PM," Sam added pointedly.

*"WHAT?"* She'd been here *how* long?

Typically - for her and, indeed, the rest of them - her automatic reaction was duty. <I'm the Press Secretary to the President of the United States!> "Need to brief the - "

Toby placed his free hand on her shoulder, not that she could have risen unaided anyway. "You don't need to do anything but lie still and heal. Mandy's taking care of the press. The President won't make his address until tomorrow, and the rest of the staff are doing wonders on their own. They can survive without you for a *few* more hours."

Claudia Jean Cregg had never been in the habit of pampering herself, especially when there was a job to do. "Can't just lie here... do nothing... "

"Yes, you can. And you will," Sam told her firmly. "We'll keep you company, we'll even keep you entertained, but only within medical boundaries. You are not to strain yourself in any way. We came far too close to losing you once already."

CJ sank back in exhausted frustration. <Time is going to pass very slowly around here... >

"So how are you feeling?" Sam asked, clearly trying to distract her.

She thought about it. Weeding out the different physical and mental factors, until she arrived at one overall conclusion.

"Afraid."

Both men looked at each other, and then back.

"I know what you mean," Sam declared with grave conviction.

"We all do," Toby agreed, and his eyes were sad.

Silence.

Sam fidgeted. He'd never had Toby's talent for immobility in the best of times, which these certainly were not. "To be honest, I'm not sure if I'll ever be able to stand beside the President in public again. I'll feel like I'm just waiting for the next killer to strike."

CJ nodded against her pillow. Holding her friends' hands more tightly, like a pair of anchors she couldn't live without. Trying not to tremble. "I know... it's not his fault... but I'm not sure if... I can even face him... "

<Will I ever be free of this terror?>

Silence.

"After everything that's happened," Toby said in a voice so quiet and measured that his seriousness could not be in doubt, "I *am* sure that the President would quite understand, if any of us - or *all* of us - decided, for our own sakes... to resign."

Neither CJ nor Sam replied aloud. However, judging from the stillness and the shared glances that followed, all three of them were considering it.

<I don't ever want to go through anything like this again. No one should have to.>

<What can possibly be done in such a world?>

*****


	15. Refiner's Fire 15

**Refiner's Fire**

**by: SheilaVR**

**Category(s):** Post-Ep  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Disclaimer:** This is an original short story spawned by the imagination of SheilaVR, based upon the creation of Aaron Sorkin, with the obligatory nod to Warner Brothers Television and NBC. No copyright infringement is actually intended, but no threat of same will stop me from fantasizing about "The West Wing" anyway...   
**Summary:** A frame-by-frame analysis of the last thirty seconds of the first season finale.  
**Authors Notes:** This plotline has no bearing on Mr. Sorkin's avowed intent to flashback to the Bartlet presidential campaign at the start of the new season.   
**Warning:** I refuse to glorify violence, even in fiction. I will never comprehend how any person could willingly hurt another. However, violence does exist, and by its very nature it is dramatic. What follows is a coolly realistic interpretation of events, based primarily upon a frame-by-frame analysis of the last thirty seconds of the first season finale. 

* * *

PART 15 (Conclusion)

********

~ TIME INDEX: 23:59:59 + 24 HOURS ~

When the American President broadcasts live on national TV, the whole country stops to watch.

Come to think of it, a large chunk of the international community does as well. Especially for inaugural speeches, State of the Union addresses, military action announcements...

... and responses to assassination.

True to form, the networks insisted on getting a few minutes in first about the events that led up to this, never mind how fresh it might still be in most people's thoughts. But finally, just after ten PM, Eastern Standard Time (seven on the West Coast), exactly forty-eight hours after a pistol trigger had been pulled, the seal of the President of the United States flashed worldwide, before giving way to the man himself.

"My fellow citizens, good evening."

Jed Bartlet deliberately avoided a first-off reference to "Americans". All of this had reached beyond his own shores and transcended the dictates of nationalism.

He sat behind that famous desk in the Oval Office, looking perfectly healthy and completely natural. The epitome of a Commander-in-Chief, right down to the navy-suit-white-shirt-red-tie image and the star-spangled banners furled on either side.

However, there was a little more gray around his temples, and a few more lines on his face, and a more resolved glint in his eyes.

"I'm sure that by now you are all well-versed in the details of the past two days. Many of us have talked about almost nothing else ever since."

A sheet of notes occupied the desktop before him. The same thing was presumably scrolling by on the camera's TelePrompTer. And yet... his words came across with more spontaneity, more power, more sheer emotion than any speech anyone could remember him giving before.

He wasn't reading from the script. He was speaking from the heart.

"I want each of you to know that your communal expressions of support have been simply tremendous. I cannot express how moved I am by the good wishes of so many people. And not just from residents of this nation, either, but from around the world. My whole family, and all those who were injured, extend their deepest gratitude."

By executive order, the media invasion of the Oval Office had been scaled down to an absolute minimum, with as few wires, lamps and microphones as possible. Bartlet did not want his special guests crowded out by television equipment.

"I'm a politician; politicians make enemies by their decisions. I'm the President; Presidents make enemies just by existing. But this recent tragedy wasn't about someone objecting to my stance on electoral reform or social issues or even gun control; this had nothing to do with my leadership or even my personality."

Several people had been invited to watch this live. Abbey graced one of the sofas, as near to her husband as she could get. Leo sat beside her, cane still in hand.

"This carnage was brought about solely because someone doesn't approve of my daughter's choice for a boyfriend." And blatant disbelief echoed across the land.

Toby, wearing his standard morose expression, Sam with his arm sling, and the ever-energetic Mandy occupied the other couch, straight across the embroidered seal.

"I'll tell you exactly what those young gunmen managed to accomplish in the name of their *noble* cause: nine innocent bystanders were seriously injured, either by bullets or by the stampeding crowd. One of them, Ethan Woodvale, leaves behind a wife and six-year-old son. Not even a homicidal terrorist could possibly have had a quarrel with him: he just had the misfortune to be in their way."

A formally-attired young woman seated to the side drew her young boy closer. Both of them couldn't help glancing about at their historical surroundings. And both of them wore the graphic veil of devastation.

"And Gail Sloan was almost literally frightened to death. Now that is an accomplishment to be proud of." Presidential sarcasm vibrated along the wires.

Margaret stood directly behind Leo, an almost protective stance. Mrs. Landingham had staked a spot towards the rear, mindful of her place - or else feeling that it was part of her job to look after everyone in this room.

"My entire senior staff, who also happen to be my personal friends, were sent to hospital; three have yet to be released. Three reporters also sustained injuries as they tried to cover the story for everyone else's benefit. Six members of the Secret Service were hit in the performance of their duty; if not for them, the body count would have been a lot higher. Certainly, if not for Ron Butterfield, I wouldn't be here right now." Bartlet paused. "And if not for the sacrifice of Gina Toscano, neither would my daughter Zoey."

Side by side in plush armchairs, a middle-aged man and his wife joined their hands for mutual support. They too had never been in this chamber before - and everyone was wishing that their first visit could have been under almost any other circumstance imaginable.

"So, twenty-three good people have been hurt, and two more are dead - all because I happen to be the one sitting in this chair." The President shook his head in consuming regret.

The Communications bullpen was crammed, and every single TV had been tuned in to the same broadcast. Ginger, Bonnie, Carol, Cathy and countless more employees watched in a silence astounding for so many people so close together... especially considering the noise level that always dominated here during the day.

"Zoey's tried to take the blame; if she hadn't been present, in all likelihood there would've been no ostensible reason to open fire on a crowd like that. By the same logic, if she weren't the President's daughter, then probably no one would care whom she dated - so I can find an excuse to blame myself as well. But all this is pointless. I refuse to let any innocent individual, let alone my own child, carry such a horrid and unnecessary burden. The blame resides solely upon the killers."

The principle White House patients had congregated in CJ's hospital room, since she could not yet move around - although she was at least propped up for this. Danny sat on her right, leaning as close to her as he could.

"By the very nature of society, public viewpoints are inevitable. And public opinion governs politics. Just so you all know, I don't want anyone's sympathy. I refuse to contemplate this *incident* in terms of political fallout. I'm not interested in national statistics, projected votes or popularity ratings. These tools have undergone a notable decline in their importance of late. I see only the pain of my family and friends, and the anguish of two bereaved parents, and the loss felt by a young widow and an orphaned boy. Politics has nothing to do with it anymore. This has become personal."

Josh, in dressing-gown and pajamas, occupied a wheelchair on CJ's left. Donna stood close behind him, like a personal guardian.

"This massacre was motivated by hatred. And right now I'm doing my best not to give in to the same destructive emotion. I can't describe to you the depths of rage I feel towards the instigators. A part of me is shouting that imprisonment is far too light a penalty for the lone survivor after the pain he and his friends have caused."

Not quite ready to sit up straight for an extended period, Charlie had been assigned a gurney instead, and parked beside Josh. Zoey sat beside him, holding his hand.

"But if I allow that rage to overcome the requirements of justice, if I seek out a personal revenge, then in truth I'm no better than these misguided miscreants themselves. And that would hand them the ultimate victory."

Another room had been commandeered by the Secret Service... looking rather less dangerous than usual. Two were dressed, at least, even if the signs of injury could not be completely disguised. Ron's arm and shoulder had been strapped firmly in place, making it impossible to propel his wheelchair unassisted, and two other men still lay flat in bed with all the machines attached. In fact, one of them was sleeping right through this proclamation - though not by choice; *his* full recovery remained in doubt.

"Thank heaven for the fact that so few Presidents are actually shot at. Not just for the sake of the office or the person who holds it, but also for the innocent citizens who inevitably get caught up in the pain - and for the entire country, which has to endure a severe impact to its identity as one people. However, we should feel that blow every bit as much when *any* of our fellows is hurt, not just the famous faces. The trifling fact that you yourself might never have appeared on the front page of the news does not make your contribution any less valuable, or your suffering any less real."

In other rooms, in an altogether different hospital, several such individuals watched from their own beds or chairs as well. The public did not really know them, the assailants had never cared about them, but the President wanted to make sure they knew how *he* felt.

"It's unbelievable how much can occur in such a few brief seconds, and the lasting repercussions they can have. Lives are shattered by violence every day. But in the moments after, and in the days to follow, we have no choice but to go forward. However, we must not permit ourselves either fear or despair. The Unites States of America does not bow to force or to terror: not from foreign dictators, not from local hooligans, and not from sheer ignorance. There is no place in our society for racial intolerance; there is no excuse for the willful infliction of pain upon the innocent."

In the Old Executive Office Building, Vice-President Hoynes lounged in his desk chair and followed along, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully.

"Other emotions I feel right now are annoyance - and resolution. A lot of people besides myself had put a great deal of effort into that Town Hall meeting, and I expect it's to a large extent been forgotten in the aftermath. But that does not diminish the truth to my message back then. *Decisions are made by those who show up.* Well, I for one am not going to be scared away from the debating table. Someone has to speak, has to run the risk of being unpopular. I am willing to take that risk again. I refuse to give in to fear."

Abbey's smile grew broader with every sentence. Leo saw this and gave her a fond nudge, sharing in the moment.

Zoey was just bursting with pride. Everyone in the room turned to grin at her.

"The last thing I want right now is to further endanger my family and friends. I cannot ask them to continue to put themselves in harm's way because of me. However, the President does not have the luxury of making that choice to withdraw from the battlefield. This office has the honor and the responsibility to lead - regardless of every threat, every attempt, every *death*. For me to surrender that trust now, for any reason, for even a short while, would be to yield this magnificent land to anarchy. Well, I just love it a bit too much to let that happen. And as many of you who feel the same, I'll be glad to have you aboard."

In the Oval, Abbey gave Leo's arm a squeeze. He smiled at her, and then nodded across to Toby, Mandy and Sam. Who each nodded back, no less articulate in their pledge to stand firm and go the distance.

In one hospital room, CJ extended a hand to Danny and a hand to Josh. Josh reached back for Donna, and their clasped hands rested on his shoulder. Donna offered her free hand to Charlie, who still held onto Zoey. All of them made eye contact with each other, taking a silent vow of unity and dedication.

Down the hall, four silent men traded glances in equally unshakable purpose.

Next door to the White House, Hoynes nodded in only slightly-grudging endorsement.

"Do any of you know why those gunmen even got their chance in the first place? Because I chose not to dive into my bulletproof car as soon as I stepped into the open, and hurry away at once to where I would be safe from all possible threats. I decided to walk over and meet the people who'd been standing for most of that evening, just waiting to see me. I deliberately took the risk for their sakes - and they paid the highest price. I sincerely hope this distressing event won't deter people from getting involved in the future of their country. No, this should energize everyone into taking the steps necessary, both in public and in public office, so that such an atrocity will never be repeated."

Right outside, citizens stared through the bars of the White House perimeter fencing, with their portable radios and TVs at hand. As though, because they stood that much closer to their leader, they could feel even more keenly the import of his message.

"We have passed through the crucible, and has emerged stronger and more unified than ever. Irrelevance is burned away; what remains is truth and purpose. I intend to use these gifts to their fullest potential, for the good of *all* of you."

All around the globe, people who were listening and understood these words felt their hearts stir, and shrug off the curse of apathy.

"I invite every single individual to join me in making these vital decisions for the future of our country and our world. If we don't, if we abandon this fragile thing called democracy, then we betray everything our forefathers accomplished, we destroy the foundations of civilization itself, and we condemn our children's precious future to the hands of a few unstable individuals who back up their bigotry with bullets. I don't care *how* many people shoot at me; I'm making my stand right here that such behavior is *not acceptable*."

Suiting actions to words, the President pushed back his chair and rose to his full height. This had not been expected; the cameraman almost didn't react in time.

Josiah Bartlet planted his fingertips on the polished surface of his desk, as though tapping directly into the history and strength of the nation itself.

"I don't want to see one more person hurt by hatred, *ever*. And if we try hard enough, none of us will. None of us have to *witness* it; none of us have to *suffer* it. Working together, *we the people* can ensure that this does not happen again."

**********

"The Lord is like a refiner's fire... He will purify them like gold and silver... " (Malachi 3:2-3)

**********


End file.
